the road that goes to ingleside
can’t be described at all,
’tis sweet beyond the telling
and the trees are paces tall.
spring o’ year at ingleside
is pungent sweet of breath.
and for its rainfilled, tumbling streams
i’m homesick unto death.
confusing flowers fill the wood
like nodding plumes of flame.
the like of which one’s never seen
and no one knows the name.
the hills that look on ingleside
are emerald to the brow.
and i would give a thousand dreams
if i could see them now.
