Let who will sing of cities grand,
Give me the woods, the endless shade
Of trees on which no man e’er laid
A ruthless hand.
What peace, what blissful quietude
The rustle of these polished leaves
Around my dreamy spirit weaves
In this green wood!
Why have I fretted so and striven
In populous towns among my kind,
Where men, who think they see, are blind
And prate of heaven?
Here in this forest breathing spice,
And love-lorn odors, born of flowers
That woo me to their secret bowers,
Is paradise.
The droning of the humble-bee,
The soughing of the wind that stirs
These pine-tops and aspiring firs,
Bring joy to me.
Stretched on this knoll of soft brown spines,
Let me life’s true elixir drink,
Nor even tax myself to think,
Till day declines.