WOOD HYMN.
Broods there some spirit here?
The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud;
And o’er the pools, all still and darkly clear,
The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow’d;
And something of a tender cloistral gloom
Deepens the violet’s bloom.
The very light that streams
Through the dim, dewy veil of foliage round
Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams—