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Robert Laurence Binyon - The Pine Woods Of Grijo
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Our voices break on a stillness bright and strange
 Of early morning. Pines upon either hand
 People the sunshine: deep as eye can range,
 Their lofty throngs in a darkling order stand.

 Our sandy path, new--washed with rains of night,
 Already is dry: but dewily shine its banks.
 And cool, the shadows asleep upon stems upright,
 Unevenly dapple the silent, endless ranks.

 The shadows, they lie so lightly, I think if a wind
 Blew hither, his breath would lift them, as all sad cares
 Are lifted, blown from the cleared and eager mind,
 That now unbidden its native pleasure dares.

 O pines of ardent branches, that plume with green
 The delicate blue of morning, and softly house
 The warm light poured from a splendour half unseen;
 O forest still and scented, hear my vows!

 My body is warm to my heart, and I rejoice.
 I clothe myself with the light, as ye are clad:
 As ye breathe forth your perfume, I my voice
 Will utter in morning freshness, alert and glad.

 As the thistledown melts in the air, of very lightness,
 Is scattered the web that trouble has vainly spun;
 And my spirit arising bold, and bathed in brightness,
 Hymns the excellent, sweet, victorious sun.
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