My Piney Wood

I have a tiny piney wood;

my trees are only fifty,

Yet give me shade and solitude

For they are thick and thrifty.

And every day to me they fling

With largess undenying,

Fat cones to make my kettle sing

And keep my pan a-frying.



Go buy yourself a piney wood

If you have gold for spending,

Where you can dream in mellow mood

With peace and joy unending;

Where you can cheerfully retreat

Beyond all churchly chiding,

And make yourself a temple sweet

Of rapturous abiding.



Oh silence has a secret voice

That claims the soul for portal,

And those who hear it may rejoice

Since they are more than mortal.

So sitting in my piney wood

When soft the owl is winging,

As still as Druid stone I brood . . .

For hark! the stars are singing.