| |
| WHEN that my mood is sad, and in the noise | |
| And bustle of the crowd I feel rebuke, | |
| I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys | |
| And sit me down beside this little brook; | |
| The waters have a music to mine ear | 5 |
| It glads me much to hear. | |
| |
| It is a quiet glen, as you may see, | |
| Shut in from all intrusion by the trees, | |
| That spread their giant branches, broad and free, | |
| The silent growth of many centuries; | 10 |
| And make a hallowed time for hapless moods, | |
| A sabbath of the woods. | |
| |
| Few know its quiet shelter,—none, like me, | |
| Do seek it out with such a fond desire, | |
| Poring in idlesse mood on flower and tree, | 15 |
| And listening as the voiceless leaves respire,— | |
| When the far-travelling breeze, done wandering, | |
| Rests here his weary wing. | |
| |
| And all the day, with fancies ever new, | |
| And sweet companions from their boundless store, | 20 |
| Of merry elves bespangled all with dew, | |
| Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore, | |
| Watching their wild but unobtrusive play, | |
| I fling the hours away. | |
| |
| A gracious couch—the root of an old oak | 25 |
| Whose branches yield it moss and canopy— | |
| Is mine, and, so it be from woodman’s stroke | |
| Secure, shall never be resigned by me; | |
| It hangs above the stream that idly flies, | |
| Heedless of any eyes. | 30 |
| |
| There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent, | |
| Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour, | |
| While every sense on earnest mission sent, | |
| Returns, thought-laden, back with bloom and flower; | |
| Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil, | 35 |
| A profitable toil. | |
| |
| And still the waters, trickling at my feet, | |
| Wind on their way with gentlest melody, | |
| Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repeat, | |
| Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by,— | 40 |
| Yet not so rudely as to send one sound | |
| Through the thick copse around. | |
| |
| Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest | |
| Hangs o’er the archway opening through the trees, | |
| Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, pressed | 45 |
| On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries,— | |
| And with awakened vision upward bent, | |
| I watch the firmament. | |
| |
| How like its sure and undisturbed retreat— | |
| Life’s sanctuary at last, secure from storm— | 50 |
| To the pure waters trickling at my feet, | |
| The bending trees that overshade my form! | |
| So far as sweetest things of earth may seem | |
| Like those of which we dream. | |
| |
| Such, to my mind, is the philosophy | 55 |
| The young bird teaches, who, with sudden flight, | |
| Sails far into the blue that spreads on high, | |
| Until I lose him from my straining sight,— | |
| With a most lofty discontent to fly | |
| Upward, from earth to sky. | 60 |
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