This weeping-willow is still most quiet and beautiful;
It bends and breathes and sways
To its brown brook and dew-bright moss, wind-quivering
All its long placid days.
Its grey-green trails of leaves droop down along,
Curtaining, kindly-wild.
They were a shelter, a little hiding-house for you
Once, as a child.
Part the leaf-curtain. Come in the dusk again.
This is the child once you.
Know the enchantment of that whispering
Thrilled safeness that you knew;
Let the cool trailers close you in. Curl down once more,
Silent with ant and flower.
Press your hands flat on the live moss. This place alone
Is the real world this hour.
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