BALLADE OF THE PIPESMOKE CARRY

The Ancient Wood is white and still,

Over the pines the bleak wind blows,

Voiceless the brook and mute the rill,

Silence too where the river flows.

Still I catch the scent of the rose

And hear the white-throat's roundelay,

Footing the trail that Memory knows,

Over the hills and far away.

I have only a pipe to fill:

Weaving, wreathing rings disclose

A trail that flings straight up the hill,

Straight as an arrow's flight. For those

Who fare by night the pole star glows

Above the mountain top. By day

A blasted pine the pathway shows

Over the hills and far away.

The Ancient Wood is white and chill,

But what know I of wintry woes?

The Pipesmoke Trail is mine at will —

Naught may hinder and none oppose.

Such the power the pipe bestows,

When the wilderness calls I may

Tramping go, as I smoke and doze,

Over the hills and far away.

Deep in the canyons lie the snows:

They shall vanish if I but say —

If my fancy a-roving goes

Over the hills and far away.