Oh, to feel the fresh breeze blowing From lone ridges yet untrod! Oh, to see the far peak growing Whiter as it climbs to God! Where the silver streamlet rushes I would follow–follow on Till I hear the happy thrushes Piping lyrics to the dawn. | Come, and learn the joy of living, Come, and you will understand How the sun his gold is giving With a great impartial hand; How the patient pine is climbing Year by year to reach the sky; How the rills make sweetest rhyming Where the deepest shadows lie. |
I would hear the wild rejoicing Of the wind-blown cedar tree, Hear the sturdy hemlock voicing Ancient epics of the sea. Forest aisles would I be winding Out beyond the gates of care, And in dim cathedrals, finding Silence in the shrine of prayer. | I am nearer the great Giver Where His handiwork is crude. Friend am I of peak and river, Comrade of old solitude. Not for me the city’s riot, Not for me the towers of trade. I would seek the house of quiet That the Master Workman made. |
When the mystic night comes stealing Through my vast green room afar, Never king had richer ceiling– Bended bough and yellow star. Ah, to list the sacred preaching Of the forest’s faithful fir, With its strong arms upward reaching, Mighty trustful worshiper. | |