How its long, light festoons o’erarching hung
From the gray rock that rises altar-like,
With its high, waving crown of mountain-ash,
Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough
Of honey’d woodbine tells me of the oak,
Whose deep, midsummer gloom sleeps heavily,
Shedding a verdurous twilight o’er the face
Of the glade’s pool. Methinks I see it now;
I look up through the stirring of its leaves
Unto the intense blue, crystal firmament.