From off majestic forms,
Whose hearts, in the living sap kept warm,
Are fearless of wildest storms.
Round us the forest, in mellow haze,
Shuts a still glory in;
Under its shadow the cattle graze—
Soon to it we shall win!
Shaking their nuts from laden limbs,
Sharing the squirrel’s mite,
Gaily we’ll gather on tufted moss