There, the songbird sings it's sweet lullaby;
squat upon the forlorn ridge of this dusky glen.
May not the song fades from this place.
May not it goes to any mobbed beach.
May it drifts along the mapple bush like
a ripple through the fragnant breeze deep down;
where the deaf air of wood 'n saw chores are
so mistful, so sweet.