Is worth a stack of staid philosophies.
Fields, waters, forests where we roamed of yore,
What thronging memories haunt ye evermore:
In yonder glen the brook is gliding still,
Whose turf-dammed waters turned the mimic mill.
Yon wood still woos us to its deep embrace,
Whose shadows wrought a summer’s resting place,
When from our brows the caps were careless thrown,
The hunter’s tackle and the game laid down,
As the long daylight, wearing towards a close,