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Under the pines, on a summer’s day,

I list to a whisper from far away,

And, lying low, with my half-closed eyes,

Behold the beauty of fairer skies.

Some say ’tis the sound of the sighing sea,

Whose distant murmer steals over me;

Some say ’tis the baby breeze instead,

That rocks in the branches overhead;

But I know it is neither wave nor breeze,

On shining sands and in leafy trees;

’Tis the music sweet of a voice divine,

That whispers peace to each pensive pine.