The Forest of Dean

Here is a poem I like, by Robin Flower:

The quiet congregation of the trees
Awoke to a rippled whisper.  The light winged breeze
Brushed leaf against leaf, softly and delicately fingering
Silken beech and ragged oak leaf;  and in the cool shadow
And wavering dapple of tremulous sunlight lingering,
As weary of the hot gold glow of the buttercup meadow,
And renewing his strength in the cool green and still shade
Of the forest, deeper and deeper burrowing in
By pathway and trackway and green ride and arched glade
Over hyacinth and the white starred garlic and curled fern,
And dreaming in some unvisited haven to win
New life from the growing grass and rejoicing return
To sweep from hill to valley, from valley to hill.
The birds were still,
Only far off a cuckoo calling,
Drowsily and perpetually a far-off cuckoo calling.