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.

© Robert Laurence Binyon