In the woods, as if forbidden
To reflect within their surface but a hand’s breadth of the sky—
Where the turtle’s lonely whirring
Is at evening ever stirring,
Winning over the calm list’ner with its saddest melody.
I have often sat, when saddened,
And as often, too, when gladdened,
At the side of these clear mirrors, where the sweetest dreams have slept;
And the world beyond forgotten,
Quiet thoughts would be begotten—