The more the sensibilist I am, the more I seem to want my mountains wild – Robert Frost
I walk towards forests in evenings,
When the heat of sun turns into haze.
The path here begins with lush fields,
Which congregate calmly along,
The headless meandering trail.
Now I see birches on both sides,
In a winding line of dark trees.
On a half-climbing path,
Leaves of birch pile everywhere,
Below their entangled canopies.
Like a girl’s hair falling,
From her longer tresses.
On the natal wet ground,
Frogs croak from everywhere.
All hailing the soft eloquence of,
Foliage dampened from the winter dew.
The forest then gives way to hills,
I wish to rise every morning,
In such a civilised cradle of nature.
To weed grass from a flower garden,
In morning and to annotate,
My favourite books in the evening.
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