 | Under Green Leaves |  |
195
THE SILENT HILLS.
Wandering 'mid the silent hills,
Sitting by the lonely rills,
And meditating as I go
On human happiness and woe,
Fancies strange unbidden rise
And flit before my placid eyes:
Dreaminesses, sometimes dim
As is the moon's o'erclouded rim;
And sometimes clear as visions are
When the sleeping soul sees deep and far,
Yet cannot, when it wakes, recall,
For the senses' and the reason's thrall.
Sitting by the lonely rills,
And meditating as I go
On human happiness and woe,
Fancies strange unbidden rise
And flit before my placid eyes:
Dreaminesses, sometimes dim
As is the moon's o'erclouded rim;
And sometimes clear as visions are
When the sleeping soul sees deep and far,
Yet cannot, when it wakes, recall,
For the senses' and the reason's thrall.
I love, in idle moods like these,
To sit beneath the shade of trees
In idle and luxurious ease;
Or lie amid the fern and grass,
And talk with shepherds as they pass:
To learn their humble hopes and fears,
And the small changes of their years.
To sit beneath the shade of trees
In idle and luxurious ease;
196
And talk with shepherds as they pass:
To learn their humble hopes and fears,
And the small changes of their years.
And if no shepherd saunters by,
I can talk with the clouds of the sky,
And watch them from my couch of fern,
As, Proteus-like, they change and turn,—
Now castles grey, with golden doors,
Gem roofs, and amethystine floors;
Now melting into billowy flakes,
Sky islands, or aërial lakes;
Or mimicking the form and show
Of the huge mountains far below.
I can talk with the clouds of the sky,
And watch them from my couch of fern,
As, Proteus-like, they change and turn,—
Now castles grey, with golden doors,
Gem roofs, and amethystine floors;
Now melting into billowy flakes,
Sky islands, or aërial lakes;
Or mimicking the form and show
Of the huge mountains far below.
And sometimes—vagrant, wild, and free—
I look upon the grass and tree,
With an all-pervading sympathy,
And bid them tell if life like theirs
Is void of feeling, joys, and cares.
And ever an answer seems to breathe
From the branches above, and the sward beneath,
And the tree says, “Many a joy is mine,—
In the winter cloud, and the summer shine;
With the daily heat, and the nightly dew,
My strength and pleasure I renew.
I sleep at eve when the skies grow dark,
And wake at the singing of the lark.
And when the winter is crisp and cold,
My life retreats beneath the mould,
And waits in the warmth for the spring-time rain,
To summon the sap to my boughs again.
I feel like you the balmy air,
And am grateful for a life so fair.”
And the grass, and the fern, and the waving reeds,
And the wild flowers, and the nameless weeds,
Reply in a low, soft tone of song
That creeps like an infant breeze along:
“We live;—and every life that's given
Receives a joy from bounteous Heaven,
In the reproduction of its kind,
In the warmth, and the light, and the dew, and the wind.”
I look upon the grass and tree,
With an all-pervading sympathy,
197
Is void of feeling, joys, and cares.
And ever an answer seems to breathe
From the branches above, and the sward beneath,
And the tree says, “Many a joy is mine,—
In the winter cloud, and the summer shine;
With the daily heat, and the nightly dew,
My strength and pleasure I renew.
I sleep at eve when the skies grow dark,
And wake at the singing of the lark.
And when the winter is crisp and cold,
My life retreats beneath the mould,
And waits in the warmth for the spring-time rain,
To summon the sap to my boughs again.
I feel like you the balmy air,
And am grateful for a life so fair.”
And the grass, and the fern, and the waving reeds,
And the wild flowers, and the nameless weeds,
Reply in a low, soft tone of song
That creeps like an infant breeze along:
198
Receives a joy from bounteous Heaven,
In the reproduction of its kind,
In the warmth, and the light, and the dew, and the wind.”
Deem me not idle if I stray,
Oh! sons of care, for awhile away
From the crowded marts of busy men,
To the wild woods and the lonely glen,
And give my thoughts a holiday.
You cannot tell the work I do,
When I lie dreaming beneath the blue;
Or how these fancies dim and strange,
May amalgamate and change,
Or grow like seeds in aftertime,
To something better than my rhyme.
Oh! sons of care, for awhile away
From the crowded marts of busy men,
To the wild woods and the lonely glen,
And give my thoughts a holiday.
You cannot tell the work I do,
When I lie dreaming beneath the blue;
Or how these fancies dim and strange,
May amalgamate and change,
Or grow like seeds in aftertime,
To something better than my rhyme.
| Under Green Leaves | |