Than that she fled the world’s cold breath, and made
A temple of the pine and chestnut shade,
Filling its depths with soul, whene’er her hymn
Rose through each murmur of the green, and dim,
And ancient solitude; where hidden streams
Went moaning through the grass, like sounds in dreams—
Music for weary hearts! Midst leaves and flowers
She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers,
All nature’s balms, wherewith her gliding tread
To the sick peasant on his lowly bed