MY FOREST CAMP

I HAVE a camp in Yarnel Glen,
 A hunter’s cabin, roofed with bark,
Far from the noisy haunts of men,
Where song of thrush or meadow lark
Floats never on the somber air.
When summer suns are fiercely hot
And birds sit mute with drooping wing,
Ofttimes I seek this lonely spot,
My cabin by the mountain spring,
And spend my days of leisure there.

Perchance some book of pleasant vein
May wile an hour of idle time.
Perchance I choose the quaint refrain
Of Chaucer or of Spenser’s rhyme,
Nor heed the failing day’s decline.
At night my forest bed I make
On fragrant boughs, and sweetly dream
Of deer or trout that I may take
On mountain side or forest stream,
With rifle true or silken line.

When autumn frosts have clothed the woods
In hues of gold and crimson red,
Again I seek these solitudes,
The moss-grown spring and forest bed.
Again I breathe the mountain air.
Then give me but my forest home,
My rifle, rod, and buoyant health,
With freedom where I please to roam;
And take who will the banker’s wealth,
His sleepless nights of anxious care.