Drawn by its silent call,
Far from the throbbing crowd of men
On nature's breast I fall.
My couch is sweet with blossoms fair,
A bed of fragrant dreams,
And soft upon my ear there falls
The lullaby of streams.
The tumult of my heart is stilled,
Within this sheltered spot.
Deep in the bosom of the wood.
Forgetting, and — forgot!
Published in The Crisis, September 1916