Stand like encircling columns, each begirt
With the light drapery of the curling vine;
While bending from above their woven leaves
Like shadowy curtains hang; the trembling light
Steals sparkling through, tinged with an added beauty
Of bright and changeful green. Sweeping their tops,
The low deep wind comes with a solemn tone,
Like some high organ’s music, and the stream
With rushing wave makes hallowed symphony.
Is not religion here? Doth not her voice