Let who will sing of cities grand, Give me the woods, the endless shade Of trees on which no man e’er laid A ruthless hand.
What peace, what blissful quietude The rustle of these polished leaves Around my dreamy spirit weaves In this green wood!
Why have I fretted so and striven In populous towns among my kind, Where men, who think they see, are blind And prate of heaven?
Here in this forest breathing spice, And love-lorn odors, born of flowers That woo me to their secret bowers, Is paradise.
The droning of the humble-bee, The soughing of the wind that stirs These pine-tops and aspiring firs, Bring joy to me.
Stretched on this knoll of soft brown spines, Let me life’s true elixir drink, Nor even tax myself to think, Till day declines.
THE LOVER’S DREAM.
Last night, When all the world was still,— All but the whip-poor-will,— A vision bright Beamed on my lonely sleep, On eyes late used to weep, And robed the world in light.