Show VOICE OF THE PINE TREE haunted it la not thyself breathing such plaint ot woe it must be some unhappy el whose heart broke ions aeo now it revisits thee alway and stirs thy harp of sorrow we hear its tiny fingers play and shudder for the morrow it seems to presage grief unborn that trembling sigh of badness we fear to hail the rosy morn lest we should miss ita gladness it is as if from earliest tima no joy thou haast felt but caught the echoes of a climo where only trouble dwelt A mystery bovera overhead and shrouds thee all thy days we glance around tor presence dread when that strange music playa it cannot be bihy ihy dirge of woe thy secret grief unfurled there la so deep an overflow it saddens all the world it moves 03 on the windy height it haunts us in the it follows through the noonday light the sighing of the pine sirs N B morange in arkansaw traveler |