Weary of the tumult of the town,
Of the burdens and the cares that weigh me down,
Of oppression, greed, and strife,
Of the din of city life,
Disappointments that my noblest efforts crown.
Weary of the world's vain, gilded styles,
Though my moments he with softest words beguiles;
Though he warble ne'er so blandly,
His old heart is false though friendly,
For he lingers near me but when fortune smiles.
Weary of his griefs and empty show,
To the quiet woods alone I love to go,
And in sweet repose abide
Where the sylvan echoes ride
On October's drowsy winds that whisper low.
Where the bonnie squirrel flits among the trees,
And the quail his piping flings upon the breeze,
Where the gold and brown leaves quiver
O'er the winding, osiered river,
Bearing on its soft, low music to the seas.
And the forest oak, so grand, majestic, high,
With his rainbow-mantled branches woos the sky,
And the wind a fairy story
Breathing o'er the maple's glory,
Brings it down in twirling crimson showers, where lie
Many springtime flowers, fast asleep,
Spreading over them a cover warm and deep;
And the sunlight glints and spangles
Through the wild and woody tangles,
Where alone the eye of God doth vigils keep.
Standing there on wild, leaf-covered sod,
Where perhaps no human foot before hath trod
My storm-tossed soul is blest
In a halo of sweet rest,
All alone within the crimson wood with God.