The Woodside Way

I WANDERED down the woodside way, Where branching doors ope with the breeze, And saw a little child at play Among the strong and lovely trees; The dead leaves rustled to her knees; Her hair and eyes were brown as they. “Oh, little child,” I softly said, “You come a long, long way to me; The trees that tower overhead Are here in sweet reality, But you’re the child I used to be, And all the leaves of May you tread.”