Excerpt from Pen and Pencil Pictures From the Poets
Here is a quiet Spirit in these woods, That dwells where’er the gentle south wind blows Where, underneath the white thorn, in the glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, $87 The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. With What a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear Of thought, When the fast-ushering star of morning comes O’er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf Or when the Cowled and dusky-sandall’d Eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, Departs with silent pace That spirit moves In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade And, babbling 1ow amid the tangled woods, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. And frequent, on the everlasting hills, 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.
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