Wyeth, N.C., Chadds Ford Hills, 1940
King Forest is throned upon shadows,
His locks are wide-blown by the wind,
All fairies proclaim his dominion,—
His rule in no law is defined.
His words are the birds and the runlets,
His bed is the dream-woven sod;
How gladly we honor his scepter,
And bow to his blossomy rod!
And would you be one of his kingdom?
Cringe never, nor humble your knees.
But come with your lips tuned to singing,
And love in your heart for the trees.
To feel is the price of his favor—
How easy to fill his behest!
The tribute of courtier is silence,
The service of minion is—rest.
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