THE woods were made for the hunters of dreams, 



The brooks for the fishers of song; 

 To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game 



The streams and the woods belong. 

 There are thoughts that moan from the soul of a 'pine, 



And thoughts in the flower hell curled; 

 And the thoughts that are blown with the scent of the fern 



Are as new and as old as the world. 



— Sam Walter Foss. 



