Where it glides, slow and deep, by each alder-cloth’d nook,
We toil up the hill—o’er the fields are the frames
Of hemlocks, scath’d black by the fierce fallow-flames,
Or girdled, with half naked trunks smooth and gray,
To catch the red lightning, or sink in decay.
Again the wood closes—still wend we along,
The robin is cheering our hearts with his song,
The black snake, warm basking, his sunlight forsakes,
As, at the loud beat of our steps, he awakes,
The trees shrink away—one more hill to our feet,