HERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows; Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. 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 The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun Groves, through whose broken roofs the sky looks in, Their old poetic legends to the wind. And this is the sweet spirit that doth fill As a bright image of the light and beauty 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 eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, 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, 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 Is the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. |