Closely bending to each other
Sway the slender trees of pine,
While their branches, finger-ending,
Clasp each other, keeping time,
As in olden minuet,
On a graceful, stately step,
To the rhythm of the music
Breathed in whispers
By the pines.
Oh, the fragrance of the pines!
How it lingers in our minds,
As a censer, swinging near,
Leaves the spicy perfume rare,
Or as from some oaken chest
Odors come from folds long pressed;
While the aged forest bards
Sweetly mimic harpsichords,
In the rambling, dulcet music
Of the pines.
In the bosom of the forest,
In some hushed and dainty nook
Where the mosses strewn with dead leaves
Weave a cushion under foot,
There the red deer meet in secret
And the oriole and the linnet,
Working in the forest twilight,
Swing their cradles in the vines,
And their voices, clear and joyous,
Join the chorus
Of the pines.
Here in winter blows the North Wind
From the tangled frozen marshes,
And in chambers, long and winding,
Sifts the deep and drifting snows.
Then the voices of the forest,
In a shrill and mighty chorus,
Wail like lost souls, tempest tossed,
Marching in a mighty host,
And in passing, keeping time
To the soughing and the sighing
Of the pines.
Let me then among the pines
Dream and work and humbly live,
Drawing sips of honeyed nectar
From the ample breast of Nature;
And from banks, moss-grown and low,
When life's shadows longer grow,
See the beck'ning pine-trees mirrored
In some placid silvery river
While their shades from deep confines
Wave a welcome
To the pines.
