In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood, <br />I am mistress, no mother have I; <br />Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good, <br />And kind is my lover hard by; <br />They both work together beneath the green shade, <br />Both woodmen, my father and Joe. <br />Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that made <br />So much of a laugh or- <br />Halló <br />. <br /> <br />From my basket at noon they expect their supply, <br />And with joy from my threshold I spring; <br />For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waring high, <br />And Echo that sings as I sing. <br />Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food, <br />As I call the dear name of my Joe; <br />His musical shout is the pride of the wood, <br />And my heart leaps to hear the-Halló. <br /> <br />Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at ease, <br />I wish not to wander from you; <br />I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your trees, <br />For I know that my Joe will be true. <br />The trill of the robin, the coo of the dove, <br />Are charms that I'll never forego; <br />But resting through life on the bosom of love, <br />Will remember the Woodland Halló.<br /><br />Robert Bloomfield<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-woodland-hallo/
