Children of the pathless wood,
Dwelling in deep solitude,
Born of earth and blessed of heaven,
Proofs of love that God hath given;
Pledges from His bounteous hand,
Ever fair and sinless band--
When your gentle mother, Spring,
Heard the happy robin sing,
Then we saw her, calm and slow,
Lift the coverlet of snow
From your tiny forms, and press
Your pure lips with tenderness.
And we knew she lingered there,
Whispering words of love and prayer;
For at last each sleeping child,
Looking upward, sweetly smiled,
With the beauty of the skies
Mirrored in its dewy eyes!
Low winds whispering through the trees;
Dreamy murmurings of bees;
Notes of birds, and flow of rills;
Music that the rain distils;
Your sweet cradle songs are these,
And unnumbered melodies.
O, ye children of the wood,
Messengers of solitude,
Ye are dearer far to me
Than the nurslings of the lea!
For ye bring to heart and brain
Childhood's rosy dreams again.
