Iii

The white ghosts of the flowers, The gray ghosts of the trees, Rise when the April showers, And haunt the wildwood bowers, And trail along the breeze: The white ghosts of the flowers, The gray ghosts of the trees.

Oft in the woodless places I feel their dim control; The wildflowers’ perished faces, The great trees’ vanished races, That meet me soul to soul: Oft in the woodless places I feel their dim control.