The truants of life's weary school,
Without excuse from thrift
We change for once the gains of toil
For God's unpurchased gift.
From ceiled rooms, from silent books,
From crowded car and town,
Dear Mother Earth, upon thy lap,
We lay our tired heads down.
Cool, summer wind, our heated brows;
Blue river, through the green
Of clustering pines, refresh the eyes
Which all too much have seen.
For us these pleasant woodland ways
Are thronged with memories old,
Have felt the grasp of friendly hands
And heard love's story told.
A sacred presence overbroods
The earth whereon we meet;
These winding forest-paths are trod
By more than mortal feet.
Old friends called from us by the voice
Which they alone could hear,
From mystery to mystery,
From life to life, draw near.
More closely for the sake of them
Each other's hands we press;
Our voices take from them a tone
Of deeper tenderness.
Our joy is theirs, their trust is ours,
Alike below, above,
Or here or there, about us fold
The arms of one great love!
We ask to-day no countersign,
No party names we own;
Unlabelled, individual,
We bring ourselves alone.
What cares the unconventioned wood
For pass-words of the town?
The sound of fashion's shibboleth
The laughing waters drown.
Here cant forgets his dreary tone,
And care his face forlorn;
The liberal air and sunshine laugh
The bigot's zeal to scorn.
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