The oak and birch, with mingled shade,
At noontide there a twilight made,
Unless where short and sudden shone
From straggling beam on cliff or stone,
With such a glimpse as prophet’s eye
Gains on thy depth, Futurity.
No murmur wak’d the solemn still,
Save tinkling of a fountain rill;
But when the wind chafed with the lake,
A sullen sound would upward break,