The Quiet Valley
No chiming hour, no restless wheel of iron,
Shall break the silence of this mossy glen;
Far from the grave smoke of city-siren,
And all the weary, hurried ways of men.
Here, only whispers of the ancient pines,
Do teach the soul a calmer, deeper song,
Where dappled light in quiet glory shines,
And wild, free river-waters rush along.
I lay me down on banks of plush green,
A pagan heart within a wilder place,
To watch the shifting of the pastoral scene,
And look upon the sun’s unclouded face.
Let others seek the comfort of the stone,
And build their towers toward the vacant sky;
I find my solace in the woods alone,
Where simple truths within the shadows lie.
No glowing screen, nor telegraphic word,
Shall wake the spirit from this tranquil dream;
My voice is answered by the calling bird,
My mirror, the reflecting, silent stream.
Oh, give me back the forest and the bough,
The breath of earth, the twilight’s golden grace;
I break the chain of human labor now,
To find my heart in Nature’s soft embrace.
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