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The Woodland Hallo
In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood, I am mistress, no mother have I; Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good, And kind is my lover hard by; They both work together beneath the green shade, Both woodmen, my father and Joe. Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that made So much of a laugh or--Halló. From my basket at noon they expect their supply, And with joy from my threshold I spring; For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waring high, And Echo that sings as I sing. Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food, As I call the dear name of my Joe; His musical shout is the pride of the wood, And my heart leaps to hear the--Halló. Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at ease, I wish not to wander from you; I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your trees, For I know that my Joe will be true. The trill of the robin, the coo of the dove, Are charms that I'll never forego; But resting through life on the bosom of love, Will remember the Woodland Halló.
Robert Bloomfield's other poems:
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