Peace to his poet soul. Full well he knew To sing for those who know not how to praise The woodsman's life, the farmer's patient toil, The peaceful drama of laborious days. He made his own the thoughts of simple men, And with the touch that makes the world akin A welcome guest of lonely cabin homes, Found, too, no heart he could not enter in. The toilworn doctor, women, children, men, The humble heroes of the lumber drives, Love, laugh, or weep along his peopled verse, Blithe 'mid the pathos of their meagre lives.