We may find it where a spring shines clear beneath an aged tree,
With the foxglove o’er the water’s glass, borne downwards by the bee;
Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birchen stems is thrown,
As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses green and lone.
We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross the cold blue sky,
While soft on icy pool and stream their pencil’d shadows lie,
When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy frost-work bound,
Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of crystals to the ground.
Yes! beauty dwells in all our paths—but sorrow too is there:
How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, still summer air!