Under the pines, on a summer's day,
I list to a whisper from far away,
And, lying low, with my half-closed eyes,
Behold the beauty of fairer skies.
Somee say 'tis the sound of the sighing sea,
Whose distant murmer steals over me;
Some say 'tis the baby breeze instead,
That rocks in the branches overhead;
But I know it is neither wave nor breeze,
On shining sands and in leafy trees;
'Tis the music sweet of a voice divine,
That whispers peace to each pensive pine.