'Tis night upon the lake, 



Our bed of boughs is built where 



high above- 

 The pine tree soughs. 

 'Tis still, and yet what woody 



noises loom 

 Against the background of the silent 



gloom; 

 One well might hear the opening of 



a flower, 

 If day were hushed as this. 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER, 

 The Voice of the Pine. 



