A singing shuttle in the tree, Wind is weaving tapestry; Sun and shadow, the pine and me And a small bird's tender minstrelsy. Oh weave me in and make me one With swaying bough and drowsy sun, With rustling fern where wild kine run And blue far hills where dreams are spun, One with the pattern of earth and sea And the soft sweet singing in the tree, With the brooding in eternity, That thought the pine, the bird, and me. |