Mystic allure in the faraway blue,
Hidden 'neath forests of mist,
Gold under snow in haunts of the dew:
Those chambers of mountain and sky.
The call of the woods under
Shadow of tree,
In winter with frost and in
Summer of bee,
It breathes a tale of truth to the world,
It sighs a word of
Grace to me.
The wind is a song in the reticent firs,
Dipping their boughs
In the light of the moon.
Tossing black needles o'er glittering stars,
Whisp'ring bright hopes through
That translucent old rune.
No comments:
Post a Comment