Who, in the pines, may hear low voices raised
To chant in suppliant tone?
They who, in Sorrow's tranquil eyes, have gazed,
O'ercome, endured alone.

The joyous whispering of lesser trees,
Who can interpret this?
Awakened souls whose inmost sanctities
Know Love's revealing kiss.

And lowly vines, the tender clinging things
That dwell amid the sod?
For pillowed ear, a carillon ne'er rings,
Unless at peace with God.