The forest passage beckons to me: dark And green with damp fecundity and rot. No tinder here will hold a living spark; The only warming fire is one I've brought. Sepulchral lichen hangs from drooping trees, Their blackened trunks obscured by shaggy moss. The path is made for struggle, void of ease. A forge of iron to separate the dross. I know not where the misty trail will wind: Above the tree line to transcendent heights, Or to a hidden valley where, confined, Dwell ever soporific nymphs and sprites? I journey forward, into fog, to find What fate for me does spin and weave and bind.