The way of the wild Is the way of the free: Pine-trees, frail and tall, Waving and beckoning to the sea. Long and low, the light Is like a feather, Floating in the night. The lake is swirling, The stars are swimming, And the wind is singing The songs of the river.

Hark, meadows, and Glistening fields; Every leaf calls, And every bird yields. They say the wild Is a treacherous friend; But, oh, give me the woods Until the end!

• Stephen Crane