I have look’d on the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the reindeer bounds o’er the pastures free,
And the pine has a hinge of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
And call’d out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night-bird’s lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,