Green spot of holy ground!
If thou couldst yet be found,
Far in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers;
If not one sullying breath
Of time, or change, or death,
Had touch’d the vernal glory of thy bowers;
Might our tired pilgrim-feet,
Worn by the desert’s heat,
On the bright freshness of thy turf repose?
Might our eyes wander there