I must be off where the green boughs beckon—
Why should I linger to barter and reckon?
The mart may pay me—the mart may cheat me,
I have had enough of the huckster's din,
The calm of the deep woods waits to greet me,
(Heart of the high hills, take me in.)

I must be off where the brooks are waking,
Where birds are building and green leaves breaking.
Why should the hold of an old task bind me?
I know of an eyrie I fain would win
Where a wind of the West shall seek me and find me,
(Heart of my high hills, take me in.)

I must be off where the stars are nearer,
Where feet go swifter and eyes see clearer,
Little I heed what the toilers name me—
I have heard the call that to miss were sin,
The April voices that clamour and claim me,
(Heart of my high hills, take me in.)