He dwells where pine and hemlock grow,
A merry minstrel seldom seen;
The voice of Joy is his I know—
Shy poet of the Evergreen!
In dawn's first holy hush I hear
His one ecstatic, thrilling strain,
So sweet and strong, so crystal clear
'Twould tingle e'en the soul of Pain.
At close of day when Twilight dreams
He shakes the air beneath his tree
With such exquisite song it seems
That Passion breathes through Melody.