The Woodlands
In leafy dews of morning bright, Where sunlight dappled the forest floor; I wandered through the woodlands light, With ancient secrets held in store.
The shadows fell where the oak-trees grew, On paths where the wild winds played the flute; In the heart of the forest, the world anew, Where time retreats, and the soul takes root.
O, the fragrant breath of the morning air, And the murmurs of streams in melodious song, These woodlands touch the heart with care, And write their tales, both deep and long.
- Wilfrid Wilson Gibson