The Song Of The Forest Ranger - Poem by Herbert Bashford
Oh, to feel the fresh breeze blowing
From lone ridges yet untrod!
Oh, to see the far peak growing
Whiter as it climbs to God!
Where the silver streamlet rushes
I would follow - follow on
Till I heard the happy thrushes
Piping lyrics to the dawn.
I would hear the wild rejoicing
Of the wind-blown cedar tree,
Hear the sturdy hemlock voicing
Ancient epics of the sea.
Forest aisles would I be winding,
Out beyond the gates of Care;
And, in dim cathedrals, finding
Silence at the shrine of Prayer.
When the mystic night comes stealing
Through my vast, green room afar,
Never king had richer ceiling -
Beaded bough and yellow star!
Ah, to list the sacred preaching
Of the forest's faithful fir,
With his strong arms upward reaching -
Mighty, trustful worshipper!
Come and learn the joy of living!
Come and you will understand
How the sun his gold is giving
With a great, impartial hand!
How the patient pine is climbing,
Year by year to gain the sky;
How the rill makes sweetest rhyming,
Where the deepest shadows lie.
I am nearer the great Giver,
Where His handiwork is crude;
Friend am I of peak and river,
Comrade of old Solitude.
Not for me the city's riot!
Not for me the towers of Trade!
I would seek the house of Quiet,
That the Master Workman made!
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