The woods will miss his hands; each seedling tree

Scarce started in its struggle for maturity

Will fight alone. The driftwood-scattered shore

Won't offer up its secrets to him any more.

Who now will walk the deer's deep-shaded trail

And tame the tangled grapevine by the swale?

Oh heart, cry not - what need for tears?

He gave us sunshine, spilling down the years,

The bright harvesting of summer's golden yield,

A joyous heritage of forest, lake and field.

The woods will miss his hands - but we

Will find him still in every lonely tree.