And thymy mound that flings unto the winds
Its morning incense, is my friend.”—Barry Cornwall.
There were thick leaves above me and around,
And low sweet sighs like those of childhood’s sleep,
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound
As of soft showers on water; dark and deep
Lay the oak shadows o’er the turf, so still
They seem’d but pictured glooms; a hidden rill
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream,
Under the fern-tufts; and a tender gleam