The woods were made for the hunters of dreams,
The brooks for the fisher of song;
To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game
The streams and the woods belong.
There are thoughts that moan from the soul of the pine
And thoughts in a flower-bell curled;
And the thoughts that are blown with the scent of the fern
Are as new and as old as the world.
Source: In the Acadian Land: Nature Studies
Contributed by: ingebrita