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.