IN LUCE TUA FRUAMUR LUCE 



For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and 



lands . . . and this for his dear sake; 



Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant 



of my soul, 



There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk 

 and dim. 



WALT WHITMAN. 



Leaves of Grass. 



If I could put my woods in song 

 And tell what's there enjoyed, 

 All men would to my gardens throng, 

 And leave the cities void. 



In my plot no tulips blow, 



Snow loving pines and oaks instead; 



And rank the savage maples grow 



From Spring's faint flush to Autumn red. 



My garden is a forest ledge 



Which older forests bound; 



The banks slope down to the blue lake-edge, 



Then plunge to depths profound. 



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