At eve I hear him in the woods That skirt the shore. He sings of fragrant wilding rose, And ocean roar, And purple iris on the brink Of banks with mountain laurel pink. I fain would bid my voice repeat With studied art, The lilting cadence of the song That thrills my heart. But though I bend to catch the strain, My quest is fugitive and vain. Untaught, by gift of God he sings His song ornate. Nor reed, nor stave, nor human voice Can imitate, Nor books nor learning teach the way To reproduce his wildwood lay. |