The Call of the Wood

All day I hear the call of the wood

      O’er the sound of the city’s throb;

All day it wakens my office dreams,

      And my peace and purpose rob.

Would I listen to the voice of trade,

      Or sound of the busy mart,

Then call of the wood invades the scene

      And pierces my restless heart.

Then can I discern the tangled depths

      Of a forest deep and green;

Where the branches touch the moss-grown sward

      And a brook in the deep ravine.

And the brook joins in the woodland call,

      As it purls o’er stump and stones;

And the voice of trade is lost again

      In its musical monotones.

A white-walled castle stands ‘neath the trees

      With its bed of scented pines;

And a campfire burns between the stones

      While its smoke far upward twines.

And a boat is tied to the grassy shore,

      With a lake of dreary blue;

And the city’s throb is lost again

      For the lake is calling, too!

O, the call of the wood is deep and long,

      And whispers the livelong day;

It is like the breath of a wind-swept plain,

      Like the voice of a child at play.

As the years go down the woodland call

      Grows sweeter and full of cheer;

While the voice of trade is harsh and dull,

      And finds a declining ear.

Aug. 22, ‘10