Let us go up to Wildwood,
Haven on a starry hill,
Where one by one beneath their names
Those we love lie still,
Still as the shadows touch them
And the west pales from its red,
Still in the fresh September night
The mists creep o'er the dead.

Is it ghosts that walk in Wildwood,
Or only living trees,
That shimmer past beneath the stars
And touch us with the breeze?
This tender frail beseeching,
This presence tremulous,
Is it man to earth outreaching?
Is it earth that yearns for us?

Let us go up to Wildwood,
And think on men we knew,
Who from the peace wherein they lie,
Brother of earth and tree and sky,
Still through their quenchless love draw nigh
And watch to keep us true.

- John Erskine, Prof at Amherst College
(probably written between 1903-1909)