The rustling murmur of embracing boughs,
The gentle dropping of the autumn leaves.
The wood’s sweet breath is incense. From the pines
And larch and chestnut come rich odours pure;
All things are pure and sweet and holy here.
I lie down underneath the firs. The moss
Makes richest cushion for my weary limbs!
Long I gaze upward while the dark green boughs
Moveless project against the azure sky,
Fringed with their russet cones. My satiate eyes