When Lamb's Tongue casts a fragile spell Of six-point stars in Deepwood's dell I touch their pearly-yellow glow
That guides me back to long ago.
High on a hill, a rain-bright sheen
Cloaks the slant of a willow's lean
Where I lost my heart to the quiet grace
Of Lamb's Tongue in a secret place.
Now, again, I am named
To follow something still untamed
When Deepwood's dell is rife with bloom
Carpeting a wildwood-room.
How shall I answer, who shall say?
A voice calls, ''Come!'' Another, ''Stay . . .''