This is where hiders live. This is the tentative And outcast corner where hiders steal away To bake their hedgehogs in a lump of clay, To raise their crops and children wild and shy, And let the world go by In accidental marches of armed wrath That stumble blindly past the buried path. Step softly, step like a whisper, but do not speak Or you will never see The furriness curled within the hollow tree, The shadow-dance upon the wilderness-creek. This is the hiders’ house. This is the ark of pine-and-willow-boughs. This is the quiet place. You may call now, but let your call be sweet As clover-honey strained through silver sieves And delicate as the dust upon the moth Or you will never find your fugitives. Call once, and call again, Then, if the lifted strain Has the true color and substance of the wild, You may perceive, if you have lucky eyes, Something that ran away from being wise