III.
The hills are white with lovely light,
And everywhere the stars burn bright
In splendor gleaming on the wood,
Where once, in loyal familyhood,
The evergreens together stood,
But—now no vespers, sweet or low,
In happy measures upward flow,
For there—by Heaven's lights, O see
The absence of the greenwood tree!
Whose noble form once waiving wide,
This melancholy waste did hide.