Give ear to hymn of oak and pine;
Drink, my soul, drink deep;
The master Muse would make it thine,
But who can fully know the sweep
Of music of the wild wood?
Each tree sings low an old, new song,
Softest lay of life and love;
Unmarred by the daring, prattling throng
Of rushing men—like a dove
My soul in the wild wood.