A Song Of The Forest Poem by Alma Frances McCollum

When you wander alone through the forest
And list to the murmuring song,
If your heart be attuned to the music,
The words will come floating along.
I have listened so oft to the singing
That when it is plaintive and low
I can hear through the melody's sobbing
A love tale of long, long ago.
'Nenemoosha! Omemee! Omemee!'
The waterfalls purl as they flow;
And the echo sighs softly, 'Omemee!
The sweetheart, the maiden of woe.'
Like a willow wand supple and slender
Her movements were motions of grace,
And her eyes as the stars of the morning;
And dusky as twilight her face,
Overshadowed by long silken tresses,
Which shone with a luminous light,
Like darkness, when daylight appeareth
Dispersing the shadows of night.

Now the West Wind is dreamily humming
The love-lays the dusky Braves cooed,
And the brooklet is mocking the laughter
That silenced each lover who wooed;
But the melody varies and deepens,
A tenderer message is sighed,
And the brooklet grows fainter and fainter
To whisper the words which replied,
Oh! this lover was fair as the morning,
His eyes as the blue of the lake,
And the hair, like its brink sun-illumined,
And true was the promise he spake:

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'Nenemoosha! Omemee! Beloved!
The moon is a thin, silver thread;
After, strand over strand, winds it roundly,
Omemee her lover will wed.'
But the Waterfalls sullenly gurgle
How, speedily, far from her sight,
With no farewell, her lover was banished,
Ere moonbeams illumined the night;
How the Braves and the Squaws in derision
Then pointed the finger of scorn
Harshly laughing, 'Omemee, forsaken,
The loveless, the maiden forlorn!'

Now the waters roar loudly their anger,
Till echoing echoes reply;
And the wind wails its anguish of spirit,
Keyed high to a shrill minor cry;
Then it hushes and sobs how Omemee
Was dazed with their gibes and her grief,
And afar through the forest went roaming
To find for her sorrow relief;
How the trees drooped their boughs to caress her,
The brambles and thorns bent aside,
And the blossoms clung fast to her tresses
To garland her fair like a bride;
How the Moon rolled its last silver girdle
And over the maiden shone clear,
Till she startled and shivered enraptured
And knew that her lover was near.
From the lakelet she heard his voice calling,
And following as in a dream,
Where the margin hung high o'er the water,
She gazed on the moon's sparkling gleam.
For a moment she lingered and hovered,
Then gliding through quivering light,
Where the Wavelets called softly, 'Omemee,'
She floated and vanished from sight.

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Now the forest is throbbing with music,
A harmony wondrously blent,
An ecstatic and thrilling emotion,
Commingled with blissful content;
From the Brooklet a ripple of laughter,
The Waterfall's note like the dove,
And the Wind in a clear tone of triumph,
With echoes uniting, sing love.
And though years have rolled decade on decade
The Forest remembers the song,
And the wraith of Omemee appeareth,
And flits o'er the water along:
An elusive ethereal vision,
An eerie and mystical sprite:
Like the vaporous spray of a fountain
It glides through the silvery light.
And because of this visitant ghostly,
Which follows the moon's brilliant wake,
And the Waterfall's echoing sighing,
This region is called 'Love-sick Lake.'

When you wander alone through the forest
And list to the murmuring song,
If your heart be attuned to the music,
The words will come floating along.
I have listened so oft to the singing
That when it is plaintive and low
I can hear through the melodies sobbing
This love tale of long, long ago.