How wonderful the wild wood,
The fresh sweet wood with its hush.
Silent, my soul! Take thou the mood
Of Veery and of Thrush,
'Way out in the wild wood.
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.
The honeysuckle and wild rose—
Purity and balm a-bloom—
Refresh my heart and they transpose
My hungry mind to richer room
And food in the wild wood.
The violets with their upward look,
The stones beneath my feet,
Make one and all an open book;
Ah, the meditations meet,
With God in the wild wood.
At length the sun puts on pure gold;
The birds and breezes softer sing,
List! all, within this shrine of old,
Chime symphonies to the King—
High mass in the wild wood!
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