In tree-tops the worn gale
Hangs, weakened to a sigh:
The rooks with sunrise hail
From out the tree-tops fly.
A deep wood, where the air
Hangs in a stilly trance:
While on rich fernbanks fair
The sunlights flash and dance.
I hear the woodland folks,
Each well-swung axe's blow:
And boughs of mighty oaks,
Murmuring to and fro.
My step fills, as I go,
Shy rabbits with quick fears:
I see the sunlight glow
Red through their startled ears.
Mild, red-brown April woods.
When spring is in the air:
And a soft spirit broods
In patience, everywhere.
Primroses fill the fields,
And birds' light matin cries:
The lingering darkness yields,
Before the sun's uprise.
Deep meadows, white with dew,
Where faeries well may dance;
Or the quaint fawnskin crew,
Play in a red moon's glance.
Quivering poplar trees,
Silvered upon the wind:
In watermeads and leas,
With silver streams entwined.
Waters in alder shade,
Where green lights break and gleam
Betwixt my fingers, laid
Upon the rippling stream.
In merry prime of June,
Birds sun themselves and sing:
Mine heart beats to the tune;
The world is on the wing.