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In other days, from woodland maze,
Homeward I proudly bore,
O'er hill and plain, 'mid sleet and rain,
The graceful pine that breathes divine
Its music at my door.


There let it stand, pride of the land,
And in my listening ear
Still breathe its psalm, low-voiced and calm;
Sad notes of grief--in my belief--
Which angels stoop to hear.


I feel its power at twilight-hour,
And think that she is near
Who reigns afar in yonder star--
A seraph blest, her soul at rest,
The brightest of her sphere.


How dear to me the whispering tree,
Whose sigh melts on the air!--
Sweeter than words, or song of birds;
Because its tone is like her own
Sweet voice, lute-like and rare.


Long be it mine, beneath that pine,
To dream of years gone by;
Of her who seems, in all my dreams,
To visit earth, where love had birth--
A love too pure to die.