There is a valley where the green grass grows;
where trees know not the winter snows;
where songs of thrush and woodbine meld
in summer sunshine’s golden glow
and happy people come and go.

In blue of sky; in cool of shade;
in Autumn splendour’s golden glade
the insects sing to those who wish to hear,
while the water in the bubbling stream
fosters many an immortal dream.

Here, where the will its pleasure moulds-
where time has neither been nor gone-
a lonely traveller wends his way:
a pack and staff his only company.

The trail is his and his alone-
his mind knows wither it shall lead:
o’er hill, by brook, by leaping waterfall.
He seeks the pleasure of that oft-remembered hall.

The quiet glen is silver bound:
stars, shining in a cloudless sky,
are keeping guard as Darkness passes by.
The inn stands where it always stood:
a fire wherein massive logs of wood
lay burning,
calls the traveller from his yearning:
bids him rest amid a happy throng,
who sing and tell their stories all night long.

Infectious merriment abounds-
the quietest of quiet sounds
is never lost amid the revelry.
The traveller enjoys the fare
and spends the night among old friends.