Like windows to a soul of loftiness;
She hath not raven locks that lightly wave
Over a brow whose calm placidity
Might emulate the white and polished marble.
[A white dove flutters by.
Ha! what art thou, fair creature? It hath vanished
Down that long vista of low-drooping trees.
How gracefully its pinions waved! Methinks
It was the spirit of this solitude.
List! I hear footsteps; and the rustling leaves