In the golden morn I love to roam Over the hills -- our hills, To smell the sweet-scented leafy loam And list to the lark-finch trills. The valley lies so peaceful there, Clothed in filmiest green; The happy river sings an air As it gently flows between. A mockingbird sits on a tall oak tree, Up on the swaying top, While down below, dressed in brown, I see A friendly sparrow hop. On carpets of softest silken grass Brown silhouette trees rise tall, While by a wall of stones I pass, Shy ivy tendrils crawl. Young eager voices of the wind Go laughing up the hill. I seem to see God's face so kind, And know He loves me still. The trees upon the hill are tall, Their branches brush the sky, I wonder God can see at all So small a thing as I. |