The Call Of The Woods

I must get out to the woods again, to the whispering trees and the birds
awing,
Away from the haunts of pale-faced men, to the spaces wide where strength
is king;
I must get out where the skies are blue and the air is clean and the rest
is sweet,
Out where there's never a task to do or a goal to reach or a foe to meet.
I must get out on the trails once more that wind through shadowy haunts and
cool,
Away from the presence of wall and door, and see myself in a crystal pool;
I must get out with the silent things, where neither laughter nor hate is
heard,
Where malice never the humblest stings and no one is hurt by a spoken word.
Oh, I've heard the call of the tall white pine, and heard the call of the
running brook;
I'm tired of the tasks which each day are mine; I'm weary of reading a
printed book.
I want to get out of the din and strife, the clang and clamor of turning
wheel,
And walk for a day where life is life, and the joys are true and the
pictures real.