And hastes from the open space,
It misses the great oak’s shading—
It misses the wild-vine’s grace.
Yet it patiently stops to listen
The wood-bird’s evening hymn,
Then gushes a gurgling chorus
Ere the way grows cold and dim—
Where glooms of the arching forest
Lie dark on its lowly breast,
Yet it sings to the deep green mosses,