While grave and lone about the greenwood lay
All soft seclusions of the dimmest dawn,
Forth from his hut, in heavenly airs to pray
Fared Father Leonor, wrapt with morn and God,
New-perfected in look and limb with sleep,
Fain of each friendly tree whereby he trod,
At dew-drop salutations smiling deep.
He paced the hollow towards his pleasant goal
Where burst from out a tall oak's roots a spring,
As prayer from priviest fibres of the soul