IN THE BRACKEN.
Scent of the pine on the hilltops,Rush of the mountain breeze,And long, deep slopes of bracken fernLike sun-lit emerald seas.Gray old rocks where the lizards hideAnd chattering chipmunks play;Where the brown quail leads her timorous broodThrough the fronds that bend and sway.Home of the doe and her spotted fawns,(Shyest of woodland things.)Haunt of the hawks that dip and diveOn circling, fearless winds.The skies bend down with a deeper blueWhere the white clouds drift and hover;And the tall peaks drowse in the golden hazeThat dapples their forest cover.The needles whisper an endless songAs the brown cones bend and nod:“O rest, O rest, with the bracken and pineIn the strong, green hills of God.”