THE OLD MAN OF THE WOODS

I went into the willow-wood
To strip a branching bare.
And spied an old man by a stream.
Whit leaves in place of hair

His fingers were like thorny twigs
His knuckles knobs of bone
His legs were gray and heavy
As if carver out of stone

His face was seamed with jagged lines
And crusted hard as bark,
His voice was whispery like the wind
That haunts the woods at the dark

He said but this one thing to me
That long I have pondered on:
"Your mind is like the yearwood,
quickly harvest,then gone."