If I come back- and well I may, my dear-
You will not find me in a summer rose.
Nor in a twisted, withered copper leaf
that spirals from a naked tree and goes;
You will not find me in a swallow dipping
Through chiffon April curtains of rain;
You will not find me in the rippling wind
That stirs as a sea of golden August grain;
I shall not be a cheery hearthside cricket,
Nor sing from the plaintive throat of whippoorwill;
But when the hunter's moon rides to the west,
If you should hear a fox bark on the hill-
Then turn in your soft, smooth bed a bit.
Knowing, with shuttered eyes, the moon is bright-
Knowing a vixen runs, alone with the stars,
Down all the frosty ridges of the night.
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