Under The Pines

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 murmur steals over me;

Some say 'tis the baby breeze instead,

That rocks the branches overhead;

But I know it's 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.