An Old-Fashioned Song

    No more walks in the wood：

    The trees have all been cut

    Down， and where once they stood

    Not even a wagon¹ rut

    Appears along the path

    Low brush is taking over.

    No more walks in the wood；

    This is the aftermath

    Of afternoons in the clover

    Fields where we once made love

    Then wandered home together

    Where the trees arched² above，

    Where we made our own weather

    When branches were the sky.

    Now they are gone for good，

    And you， for ill， and I

    Am only a passer-by.

    We and the trees and the way

    Back from the fields of play

    Lasted as long as we could.

    No more walks in the wood.