If you would love the woodland, it
Must be a living thing to you —
A comrade at whose feet you sit
And look together at the blue.
You must love sun as flowers do
The god of day; the kiss of rain
Must be as healing sweet to you
As to the daisy on the plain.

You must go faring without fear
The woodland wild, however far —
In some new path a pioneer,
And for your compass but a star.
You must lie down with door ajar
Beside the midnight waters' hem,
You must lie down where wild things are
And feel companionship with them.

You must delight in that delight
The bud enjoys when first it knows
The passing of the Winter night
And wakes to find itself a rose.
You must feel pleasures such as those,
The joy of living in the land,
And, as the waking leaves unclose,
Must feel your petaled soul expand.