There is a tongue, not young, not old,
in which the north woods’ tales are told;
of wild rivers running and trees standing tall,
of eagles that soar and loons that call.
I hear it on the high ridge line
when zephyrs whisper in the pine,
and aspen leaves turn to and fro
as summer breezes gently blow.
I hear it by the winding trail
as waters wander through the dale.
I hear it in the solemn hush
as the deer steps from the brush.
I hear it in the clamoring choir
as the wild geese climb yet higher.
I hear it speaking to my soul
as my fire burns down to coal.
When the worries of the day
shade my world in drear and grey,
I listen for the soothing tones
of the soft wind in the trees
and the water on the stones.
Nanook of the Nashwaak
Reach out and touch a rock
Click here to hear Nanook recite this poem.
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