Oh! thou, whose heart is scarred and worn,
Whom plans bewilder, cares oppress, —
By disappointment overborne,
Or overjoyed at earth's success, —
The fir woods call to thee to come,
Their lonely depths are never dumb.
For there is never day so still,
So lulled to sleep, but some light breeze,
Unnoticed else, doth faintly fill
The topmost foliage of the trees,
And those tall, tapering crests are stirred,
And the eternal whisper heard.
And there is never day so rude,
So vexed with blasts that howl and drive,
But in this dark and silent wood
The winds are hushed, or only give —
Howe'er the tree-tops rock and swing —
Depth to their solemn murmuring.
