We don't take tents and things like that,
Just blankets on the ground.
And then the wind comes slow and soft
And doesn't make a sound.

The leaves all whisper very low,
Indeed, they never shout!
I try, and try, and try to hear
Just what they talk about.

I never yet have understood
A single word they say,
Although I've listened many nights,
And thought of it by day.

I hear most every word,
They laugh and sing and tumble 'round,
The jolliest way I've heard.

My mother says it's just the brook,
That there's no fairy band.
But I believe that she's too old
To really understand.