The Pine Woods Of Grijo

Our voices break on a stillness bright and strange Of early morning. Pines upon either hand People the sunshine: deep as eye can range, Their lofty throngs in a darkling order stand. Our sandy path, new--washed with rains of night, Already is dry: but dewily shine its banks. And cool, the shadows asleep upon stems upright, Unevenly dapple the silent, endless ranks. The shadows, they lie so lightly, I think if a wind Blew hither, his breath would lift them, as all sad cares Are lifted, blown from the cleared and eager mind, That now unbidden its native pleasure dares. O pines of ardent branches, that plume with green The delicate blue of morning, and softly house The warm light poured from a splendour half unseen; O forest still and scented, hear my vows! My body is warm to my heart, and I rejoice. I clothe myself with the light, as ye are clad: As ye breathe forth your perfume, I my voice Will utter in morning freshness, alert and glad. As the thistledown melts in the air, of very lightness, Is scattered the web that trouble has vainly spun; And my spirit arising bold, and bathed in brightness, Hymns the excellent, sweet, victorious sun.