|
Where the solitude of the
timberland holds,
Sweet the silence of this giant room unfolds
Tall old tree whose branches like arms crossed
Stand silent but friendly the trunks all mossed.
They are the associates we want to know,
Such secrets can these tell and show.
This is the wealth designed,
Without gold all we can find,
Of gifts each way we look.
From leafy floor to clear brook.
Not sewn, glass blown, or anything,
Of man's craft is there to bring,
Only the creation of our Master
His mold shown, not of plaster. |
