PLEASANT it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low, To lie amid some sylvan scene, Where, the long drooping boughs between, Shadows dark and sunlight sheen Alternate come and go; Or where the denser grove receives But the dark foliage interweaves Beneath some patriarchal tree His hoary arms uplifted he, With one continuous sound; A slumberous sound,-a sound that brings The feelings of a dream,— As of innumerable wings, As, when a bell no longer swings, Faint the hollow murmur rings O'er meadow, lake, and stream. And dreams of that which cannot die, Dreams that the soul of youth engage Ere Fancy has been quelled; Old legends of the monkish page, And, loving still these quaint old themes, Even in the city's throng I feel the freshness of the streams, That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings I sought the woodlands wide. The green trees whispered low and mild; It was a sound of joy! They were my playmates when a child, And ever whispered. mild and low. And waved their long arms to and fro, And beckoned solemnly and slow; O, I could not choose but go Into the woodlands hoar; Into the blithe and breathing air Into the solemn wood. Solemn and silent everywhere! Nature with folded hands seemed there, Kneeling at her evening prayer! Like one in prayer I stood |