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The soul of the trees is mine,
I feel each leaf and stem
Stir with the pulse earth-mother gives
To oak and elm.


But best loved thou, O Pine,
Whose quickening breath
Pungent and wild is to my sense,
And sweet in death!


Here in thy shade--
I ask no holier place--
To lie with folded hands,
And peaceful face.


No stone or marble cold
To shadow me,
Hushed, guarded, sentried,
And by thee!