The Red House of Stockbridge
[One Winter's Morn]

Within the Forest large and deep
To Hawthorn's house I walked
One winter's morn
And touched upon the soil my feet
Where he once walked this snowy ground

Then resting upon his wooden fence
Where surely he strolled
To and fro

I listened to the story he wrote:
"The House of the Seven Gables" ?

Within this forest fresh with snow
Gazing upon a lake near-by
The Red House
Stands all alone
To tell his tales gone-by

Oh Yes! He walks this lane I stand
Talks to Melville of His plans
And chats with
Emerson who lives near-by
Of dreams, wishes, and winter's sky

And as I turn to walk away
I see him resting by the fireplace...
IN the Red House of
Stockbridge

Written while visiting the Red House, in 1997. I paced the same path he paced when he lived there. As he once wrote: "This path is the only remembrance of me that will remain." ? 1864. I wrote the poem 33,000-feet flying from New York City to St. Paul, Minnesota, and sent it back to my friend in Stockbridge, and it was mounted, and 50-copies sighed, and sold in Stockbridge's special stores for my friend. This poem was also published in the book "Sirens," ? 2004.