The kildee's cry along the sandy shore
The pine-tops in the distance, and a still
Far sense of brooding on each wooded hill;
The fallen trunk of a huge sycamore
Around whose roots the river's waters pour,
And everywhere a subtle dawning thrill
That grows, and spreads, and palpitates until
The red sun peeps above the eastern door.

What joy to stand above our vantage ground
Beneath the shade of overhanging beech;
To drink in every chord of sylvan sound
Learning the lessons that the woods can teach;
Our hearts and souls by sympathy thus bound
And happy more in thought and less in speech!