Very old are the woods And the buds that break Out of brier's bough When March winds wake Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose Our dreams are tales Told in dim Eden By Eve's Nightingales But, the day gone by Silence and sleep like fields Of amaranth lie Very old are the brooks And the rills that rise Where snow sleeps cold beneath The azure skies Sing such a history Of come and gone Their every drop is as wise As Solomon.