The Hermit of Doon(To Homer Watson)Be still, sad heart, nor hurry by The old, old house among the trees.Where lives the hermit, bright of eye,Who paints the beauty of the seas.Sunlit meadows with quiet sheep, Or homebound cattle, a hundred treesGnarled and old in the dusk asleep, Or young and fair in the springtime breeze.Trees in the autumn, trees at night, Lifting storm-tossed arms in prayer.Souls struggling upward. Worn in the fight - You shall see this beauty there.Ah, then, oh heart, if you feel in tune, List to the song of the waning moon,The song of a striving soul set free, A song that is sweet with melody.Hilltop and meadow, sweet to the sight, Snow-clad and far away, cold in the night;Rivers asleep in the arms of moonlight; Storm-ruffled, shadowy, darksome or bright -This is the song of the waning moon, The song of the hermit, the Hermit of Doon,Weaving his own great symphony, A song that is sung for Eternity. JANE VAN EVERY.