That grouped in rounded clusters the grassy and quiet glades.
Then the log hut was swept away
With its chimney of sticks,
And its little window, like the eye of the deer
Peering out from its leafy ambush.
The village spread out with its roofs
And its delicate finger-like steeple
That pointed forever toward heaven,
Like the prayer of the pastor ascending.
On an emerald knoll, with the shape