Praise be to you, O hills, that you can breathe

Who would not rather founder in the fight Than not have known the glory of the fray?

I have need of the sky, I have business with the grass; I will up and get me away where the hawk is wheeling Lone and high, And the slow clouds go by. I will get me away to the waters that glass

Nor love they least Who strike with right good will To vanquish ill And fight God’s battle upward from the beast.

The people blossoms armies and puts forth The splendid summer of its noiseless might.

In all climes we pitch out tents, Cronies of the elements, With the secret lords of birth Intimate and free.

Spring in the world! And all things are made new!