Thee Best Of Leaves I Love, In Forest Or In Grove, O Maple Leaf; O Thou Which Art The Sign Of This Dear Land Of Mine, What Loveliness Is Thine, O Maple Leaf! Naught Can With Thee Compare, On Earth Or In The Air, O Maple Leaf; Wondrous Thy Beauties Are; Thy Form Is Like A Star, But Thou Art Not Afar, O Maple Leaf. When Drops Of Dew Adorn Thy Surface In The Morn, O Maple Leaf, No Hue So Fair Is Seen, In Silk Or Satin'S Sheen, As Thy Rich Shade Of Green, O Maple Leaf. No Music In My Ear Is Half So Sweet To Hear, O Maple Leaf, As That Which Thou Dost Make When Winds Of Summer Shake The Branches Of The Brake, O Maple Leaf. Most Beautiful In Pain, When Suns Begin To Wane, O Maple Leaf, Thou Never Growest Old, But In The Time Of Cold Thou Turnest But To Gold, O Maple Leaf. And When The Earth Expires, And Mute Are All Her Choirs, O Maple Leaf, Thy Dower Thou Dost Shed Of Tribute, Richest Red, Upon Her Sombre Bed, O Maple Leaf. May Heaven Bless Thy Land, And Make It Strong To Stand, O Maple Leaf; For It We Humbly Pray That God Will Be Its Stay, Now, Henceforth, And For Aye, O Maple Leaf.