The Little Brown Path

Down the little brown path through the woodland
I went in my dreaming last night
and saw near the brackens uncurling
Anemones white.

Dog violets made a blue carpet,
wet primroses pushed through the mould;
I heard the wild magical stories
the song the Thrushes told.

I listened, while loud from the meadows
a blackbird's gay whistle came clear;
and plaintive and sweet a shy wood-dove
crooned low to his dear.

Then, just where the hawthorns were showing
green leaves, with faint gleamings of white,
the little brown path took a turning
away to the right.

I ran! O my heart, you were eager!
but feet, you were slow, were you not?
O wreath of blue smoke all upcurling!
O little grey cot!

At the bend of the way you were waiting
one step, or it might have been two,
and the little brown path through the woodland
had led me to you!