Along the pastoral ways I go, <br />To get the healing of the trees, <br />The ghostly news the hedges know; <br />To hive me honey like the bees, <br />Against the time of snow. <br /> <br />The common hawthorn that I see, <br />Beside the sunken wall astir, <br />Or any other blossoming tree, <br />Is each God’s fair white gospeller, <br />His book upon the knee. <br /> <br />A gust-broken bough; a pilfered nest; <br />Rumors of orchard or of bin; <br />The thrifty things of east and west,— <br />The countryside becomes my Inn, <br />And I its happy guest.<br /><br />Lizette Woodworth Reese<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-holiday-3/
