University of Virginia Library

THE WOOD.

Whence is the secret charm of this lone wood,
Which in the light of evening mildly sleeps?
I tread with lingering feet the quiet steeps,
Where thwarted oaks o'er their own old age brood;
And where the gentler trees in summer weather
Spring up all greenly in their youth together:
And the grass is dwelling in a silent mood,
And the fir-like fern its under-forest keeps
In a strange stillness. My wing'd spirit sweeps
Forth as it hath been wont; nor stays with me,
Like some domestic thing that loves its home.
It goes a-dreaming o'er the imagery
Of other scenes, which from afar do come,
Matching them with this indolent solitude.
Here—I am dwelling in the days gone by—
And under trees which I have known before:
My heart with feelings old is running o'er,
And I am thrill'd—thrill'd at an evening sky.
The present seems a mockery of the past,
And all my thoughts glide by me, like a stream
That seeks a home,—that shines beneath the beam
Of the summer sun,—and wanders through sweet meads,
In which the joyous wildflower meekly feeds,—
And strays, and wastes away in woods at last.
My thoughts o'er many things glance silently;
But to this olden forest creep, and cling fast.
Imagination, ever wild and free,
With heart as open as the naked sea,
Can consecrate whate'er it looks upon:
And Memory, that maiden never alone,
Cons o'er the tale of life. While I can see
This blue, deep sky—that sun so proudly setting
In the haughty west—that spring patiently wetting
The shadowy dell—these trees so tall and fair,
That have no visitors but the birds and air;
And hear those leaves a gentle murmur keep,
Like brooks that make soft music in their sleep;
The melting of young waters in the dells;
The jingle of the loose flock's lulling bells;
While these all mingling o'er my senses sweep,
I need not doubt but I shall ever find
Things, that will feed the cravings of my mind.
My happiest hours were pass'd with those I love
On steeps; in dells with shadowy trees above;
And therefore it may be my soul ne'er sleeps,
When it is in a pastoral solitude;
And such may be the charm of this lone wood,
Which in the light of evening sweetly sleeps.