THE SONG I SING 



N. B. The author of the following lines, a new west country 

 poet of striking originality, has so lovingly sung my own 

 heart -song that I feel impelled to take advantage of his grace- 

 ful permission to include his verses in the forefront of this 

 volume. 



" I SING the song of the torrent stream, 

 And the rippling, pebbled brook, 

 Of its flower-decked bank, where I sit and dream, 

 Near a festooned, shady nook. 

 I sing the song of the Summer sun, 

 With its filmy, cloud-flecked sky, 

 The August cornfields' sun-tann'd gold, 

 And the wild birds' minstrelsy. 



I sing the song of the flaming flower, 



Of the pastures' rolling green, 



Of the scented grasses' dew-spray shower, 



And the glistening raindrops' sheen. 



I sing the song of the tinted fall, 



Of the wild briar's scented spray, 



Of the brookside willow catkin's chrome, 



And the milk-white bloom jof May, 



I sing the song of the purple bloom, 



Of the wild, free, open heath, 



Where the bee sucks heather, nectar food, 



And the partridge nests beneath. 



I sing the song of the wander life, 



The song of the wild, lone trail, 



The song of the scented, evening breath, 



And the dew-mists' bridal veil. 



I sing the song of the pirate bird, 



Of the swift and hovering flight : 



Of the vagrant nightjar's vibrant note, 



And the prowlers of the night. 



I sing, with a tuneful cadence lilt, 



The song of the passing breeze, 



The bass of the Viking Ocean's roar, 



And the ' swish ' of the leafless trees. 



