Song of the woods

Arm in arm and treetop to treetop stands the labyrinthine oak forest.

Today it was in a good mood and sang me its old song.

By it distant outskirts, a young sapling started to sway gently,

and then it went further until it was swishing and flexing;

it came here in a powerful surge, swelling into broad waves;

rolling high through the treetops came the storm flood.

And now in the treetops there was a horrid singing and piping in the air,

and in between, below among the roots, there was a crunching and droning.

Many times, loudly, the highest oak would brandish its trunk alone,

followed by a chorus of the entire grove resounding thunderously!

This beautiful game was much like the wild surf of the sea;

all the leaves, gleaming white, swept out toward the northeast.

In such a way does ancient Pan bow his old fiddle, loudly and softly,

teaching his woods the old melodies of the world.

Inexhaustibly he rambles up and down, using only seven notes;

all songs use these seven ancient notes.

And they listen quietly, the young poets and young finches;

crouching in the dark bushes they drink in the melodies.