The soul of the trees is mine,
I feel each leaf and stem
Stir with the pulse earth-mother gives
To oak and elm.
But best loved thou, O Pine,
Whose quickening breath
Pungent and wild is to my sense,
And sweet in death!
Here in thy shade--
I ask no holier place--
To lie with folded hands,
And peaceful face.
No stone or marble cold
To shadow me,
Hushed, guarded, sentried,
And by thee!
