People Who Visit Woods

People who visit woods, Should be open as flowers In the bluebell night, In the moon-bright Owl-cruel hours. For woods are as old as oceans, Holy as tall cathedrals, Winds weave dreams and skies In their woody towers. People who visit woods, Should go there creeping, Like the one-eyed worm Or the stripe-backed, shuffling brock. When the fern in the trees is sleeping The dew is forming A single, brilliant drop. People who visit woods, Should go rejoicing, Like the ghost of the hare That leaps through the barley crop. People who visit woods, Should come like whispers, Be like the ear of the corn That the night sings through. People who visit woods, Should come like pilgrims Into the heart of a shrine That a god comes to.