The morning rays fall low and cold
On pathways to the woodland old.
But few are stirring out to greet
The misty hours with roaming feet.
The brook is flowing slowly past.
The hills lay in the airy vast.
The mossy stream, serene and clear,
Are we not all great poets here?
I wander slowly through the trees
To feel the changeless in the breeze,
And ponder all those bygone days
That disappear like morning haze.
I know not where the doers are,
Who wander never near or far;
Bereft of woods and field and streams,
And substance for their fragile dreams.