And all things have a beauty not their own.
There, on the upland, shall a milder sun
Smite the white cottage and the glistening vane;
And nestle in the balmy stack, and float,
A fruitful flood upon the southern wall;—
There the great oak shall stir his solemn head,
The lime-tree shed her blossoms sweetly faint,
The poplar tremble, like the heart of man,
Whose darkest thoughts have under-lights of hope;—
The beech shall spread his venerable shade,