How I yearn for a cabin in the woods,
Someplace where Indian dwellings might have stood.
Land of birch where the squirrel frisks at play
Scolding all in its teasing timid way.
How I yearn for an oaken rocking chair.
Log-hewn walls hung with varied antique wares.
Coals a-glow in a crackling fireplace.
Flames that dance as they're mirrored on my face.
How I yearn for the oil lamp's subtle light.
Silence still, as it follows soothing night.
Lakes of glass that reflect the starlit sky,
Wailing loons with their anguished, haunting cry.
How I yearn for that simple pioneer life,
Earthly tasks and a way that's free from strife.
Heed my plea, for my heart has long been won,
There I'll dwell till my waning days are done.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem