Our forest, which is a haven.
If harried is your name,
Your time is some and will is done,
Unearthed as a stick in warming.
Come this way, our airy bed,
and fuel of our tree spices.
As we’re furtive, those who try stay among us.
And delay knot into time’s station,
but deliver us from wear.
For flowers singing, a bower, and story,
Fir, ever and ever, green.