Oh, here is joy that cannot be
In any market bought or sold,
Where forests beckon fold on fold
In a pale silver ecstasy,
And every hemlock is a spire
Of faint moon-fire.
For music we shall have the chill
Wild bugle of a vagrant wind
Seeking for what it cannot find,
A lonely trumpet on the hill,
Or keening in the dear dim white
Chambers of night.
And there are colours in the wild:
The royal purple of old kings;
Rose-fire of secret dawn; clear springs
Of emerald in valleys aisled
With red pine stems; and tawny stir
Of dying fir.
~ Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874 - 1942) Canadian writer, poet. The Poetry of , Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 1987
