What a glory is before me—
All around, beside, and o’er me—
What a glory, all of colors that no human hand hath drawn!
Or if it be at even,
When soft breezes blow from heaven,
And the glimmer of the twilight comes a-dancing through the leaves—
Oh! how thick my brain is crowded
With sweet images enshrouded—
With sweet images enshrouded in the mists my fancy weaves!
Little pools lie closely hidden