I am afraid to go into the woods,
I fear the trees and their mad, green moods.

I fear the breezes that pull at my sleeves,
The creeping arbutus beneath the leaves,

And the brook that mocks me with wild, wet words:
I stumble and fall at the voice of birds,

At the golden tumult of April stars,
Touching to song my silent scars.

Think of the rainbow that lurks in showers,
Think of the meadows of fierce-eyed flowers;

And the little things with sudden wings
That buzz about me and dash and dart,
And the lilac waiting to break my heart.

Winter, hide me in your kind snow!
I am a coward, a coward, I know.