White stars in the dusk of the pine,
And down the dim aisles of the old forest pour
The sunbeams that melt into wine!
∗ ∗ ∗
Oh, woods of the west, I am sighing today
For the sea-songs your voices repeat,
For the evergreen glades, for the glades far away
From the stifling air of the street,
And I long, ah, I long to be with you again
And to dream in that region of rest.