Green heart of woods through which no wind doth pass,
Long sloping meadows sown with silken grass,
Old gardens thick with scents of death, and birth.
Pale dome of morning, ere the first bird sings,
Stretching above the silent palisade,
Vague and unearthly, wrought of light and shade.
O’er which the dusk still hangs with starlit wings.
The hush of mid-day in the languid south,
Where marble borders rim the limpid pools,
In whose blue depths the ardent noontide cools