  It is the year’s high noon! The air sweet incense yields; And, o’er the fresh, green fields, Bends the clear sky of June. I leave the crowded streets, The hum of busy life, Its clamor and its strife, To breathe thy pÉrfumed sweets. Oh rare and golden hours! The birds’ melodious song Wave-like is borne along Upon a strand of flowers. I wander far away, Where, through the forest trees, Sports the cool summer breeze In wild and wanton play. A patriarchal elm Its stately front uprears, Which, twice a hundred years, Has ruled this woodland realm. I sit beneath its shade, And watch, with careless eye, The brook that babbles by And cools the leafy glade. In truth, I wonder not, That, in the ancient days, The temples of God’s praise Were grove and leafy grot. The noblest ever planned, With quaint device and rare, By man, can ill compare With this from God’s own hand. Pilgrim with wayworn feet, Who, treading life’s dull round, No true repose hast found, Come to this green retreat;— For bird and flower and tree, Green field and woodland wild, Shall bear, with voices mild, Sweet messages to thee. |
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