The gray of stone, and green of moss.
Arches high and low. The forest where it lingers near,
and rivers where they flow. Once I dwelt as near
to them, as far I have now come. Yet though I’ve lived
here many years, my heart has not yet gone.
For I remember an isle in mist, and trees
that stretched so high. The moss it grew in banks
and hills, roving yon and nigh. The babble of brook
and forest scent, near brought me to my knees.
And now I wish that I had stayed; there among the trees.
For here I sit and reminisce, missing heart and soul,
an isle in Maine, surrounded by mist,
where I learned what my heart holds.