Photo by Richard Fogg
Downy came and dwelt with me,
Taught me hermit lore;
Drilled his cell in oaken tree
Near my cabin door.
Carved it deep and shaped it true
With his little bill;
Took no thought about the view,
Whether dale or hill.
Shook the chips upon the ground,
Careless who might see,
Hark! his hatchet’s muffled sound
Hewing in the tree.
Round his door as compass-mark,
True and smooth his wall;
Just a shadow on the bark
Points you to his hall.
~ John Burroughs
