Welcome to Poetry.com!

In verte, it is bois a bleu,
He oranges under hang.
This must be the place to tell you what I sang?
“All the green in the wood can do a little good
for when I stand where you stood and
do what you could have done in good time, here I must sign.

Where he has signed I see red hot coals
Where you drew your lines playing flames.
Here there is the smoke in which my eyes can dwell,
unquell joy, bosky dreams and peaceful scenes all held in the fire’s glance
S S S Seeing nothing, feeling it all, in a trance,
charmed by friends, in a wood that never sends
me back home but understands when my return
will shine as fresh as when I came.