THE END OF THE TRAIL.
A wild and wayward woodsy trail runs over the hill away
Up thru the dark and whispering pines, whither I cannot say;
But I shall follow this wanton trail wherever it may lead;
Whether across the mountain high, or thru the flowery mead.
Up thru the dark and whispering pines, whither I cannot say;
But I shall follow this wanton trail wherever it may lead;
Whether across the mountain high, or thru the flowery mead.
On and on past the bubbling spring, where myriad wild flowers grow;
On and on round the foot of the hill, where the waves of the river show.
And all along this wandering trail bloom flowers on either hand;
The yellow snapdragon and blue lupine, and the gentian cover the land.
On and on round the foot of the hill, where the waves of the river show.
And all along this wandering trail bloom flowers on either hand;
The yellow snapdragon and blue lupine, and the gentian cover the land.
The purple monk's hood, straight and tall, glows in some darksome spot,
And on the bank of a babbling brook blooms the forget-me-not.
The Indian paint brush brightly gleams in a sunny forest glade,
And in its glowing scarlet seems the brightest flower e'er made.
And on the bank of a babbling brook blooms the forget-me-not.
The Indian paint brush brightly gleams in a sunny forest glade,
And in its glowing scarlet seems the brightest flower e'er made.
Then up the hill winds the little trail under the whispering pines;
Up and up to the very top where the hack-ma-tack berry shines;
Here I have come to the end of the trail; I pause on the very brink
Of a dark and gloomy mountain tarn where wild beasts come to drink.
Up and up to the very top where the hack-ma-tack berry shines;
Here I have come to the end of the trail; I pause on the very brink
Of a dark and gloomy mountain tarn where wild beasts come to drink.
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