On Michael's Picture

Deep in woods our wet steps fell
All quietly in cold,
Until we came into this dell
Where fallen trees grow old.

Brown reddish leaves lay resting there
And white from melting snow;
And lovely green in places where
The moss had thought to grow.

White birches standing all around
Walled off the worldly din,
As we stood now without a sound
And looked outside and in.

Our quiet room goes with me now
A place I sometimes go;
Where fallen trees lie silently
In peace, and age, and snow.