I must get out to the woods again, to the whispering tree, and the
birds a-wing,
Away from the haunts of pale-faced men, to the spaces wide where
strength is king;
I must get out where the skies are blue and the air is clean and the
rest is sweet,
Out where there's never a task to do or a goal to reach or a foe to meet.
I must get out on the trails once more that wind through shadowy haunts
and cool,
Away from the presence of wall and door, and see myself in a crystal pool;
I must get out with the silent things, where neither laughter nor hate
is heard,
Where malice never the humblest stings and no one is hurt by a spoken
word.
Oh, I've heard the call of the tall white pine, and heard the call of
the running brook;
I'm tired of the tasks which each day are mine, I'm weary of reading a
printed book;
I want to get out of the din and strife, the clang and clamor of
turning wheel,
And walk for a day where life is life, and the joys are true and the
pictures real.