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Poem	Here let us linger at will and delightsomely hearken Music aeolian of wind in the boughs of pine, Timbrel of falling waters, sounds all soft and sonorous, Worshipful litanies sung at a bannered shrine. Deep let us breathe the ripeness and savor of balsam, Tears that the pines have wept in sorrow sweet, With its aroma comes beguilement of things forgotten, Long-past hopes of the years on tip-toeing feet. Far in the boskiest glen of this wood is a dream and a silence Come, we shall claim them ours ere look we long; A dream that we dreamed and lost, a silence richly hearted, Deep at its lyric core with the soul of a song. If there be storm, it will thunder a march in the branches, So that our feet may keep true time as we go; If there be rain, it will laugh, it will glisten, and beckon, Calling to us as a friend all lightly and low. If it be night, the moonlight will wander winsomely with us, If it be hour of dawn, all heaven will bloom, If it be sunset, it's glow will enfold and pursue us. To the remotest valley of purple gloom. Lo! the pine wood is a temple where the days meet to worship, Laying their cark and care for the nonce aside, God, who made it, keeps it as a witness to Him forever, Walking in it, as a garden, at eventide.
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