Nor are thy tones unanswered, where she builds
Such monuments of regal sway. These wide,
Untrodden forests eloquently speak,
Whether the breath of Summer stir their depths,
Or the hoarse moaning of November’s blast
Strip from the boughs their covering.
All the air
Is now instinct with life. The merry hum
Of the returning bee, and the blithe song
Of fluttering bird, mocking the solitude,