THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, | |
| That dwells where’er the gentle south-wind blows; | |
| Where, underneath the white-thorn in the glade, | |
| The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, | |
| The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. | 5 |
| With what a tender and impassioned voice | |
| It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, | |
| When the fast ushering star of morning comes | |
| O’er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; | |
| Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve, | 10 |
| In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, | |
| Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves | |
| In the green valley, where the silver brook, | |
| From its full laver, pours the white cascade; | |
| And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, | 15 |
| Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. | |
| And frequent, on the everlasting hills, | |
| Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself | |
| In all the dark embroidery of the storm, | |
| And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid | 20 |
| The silent majesty of these deep woods, | |
| Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, | |
| As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air | |
| Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards | |
| Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. | 25 |
| For them there was an eloquent voice in all | |
| The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, | |
| The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, | |
| Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, | |
| The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun | 30 |
| Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, | |
| Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, | |
| Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, | |
| The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees, | |
| In many a lazy syllable, repeating | 35 |
| Their old poetic legends to the wind. | |
| |
| And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill | |
| The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, | |
| My busy fancy oft embodies it, | |
| As a bright image of the light and beauty | 40 |
| That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms | |
| We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues | |
| That stain the wild bird’s wing, and flush the clouds | |
| When the sun sets. Within her tender eye | |
| The heaven of April, with its changing light, | 45 |
| And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, | |
| And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair | |
| Is like the summer tresses of the trees, | |
| When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek | |
| Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, | 50 |
| With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, | |
| It is so like the gentle air of Spring, | |
| As, from the morning’s dewy flowers, it comes | |
| Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy | |
| To have it round us, and her silver voice | 55 |
| Is the rich music of a summer bird, | |
| Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. | |
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