THE SUN IN THE WOODS
by Ethelwyn Wetherald
The sun within the leafy woods
Is like a midday moon,
So soft upon these solitudes
Is bent the face of noon.
Loosed from the outside summer
blaze
A few gold arrows stray;
A vagrant brilliance droops or plays
Through all the dusky day.
The grey trunk feels a touch of
light,
While, where dead leaves are deep,
A gleam of sunshine, golden white,
Lies, like a soul asleep.
And just beyond dank-rooted
ferns,
Where darkening hemlocks sigh,
And leaves are dim, the bare road
burns
Beneath a dazzling sky.
from:
The
Canadian Poetry
Archive