And the low thorn is beautiful with flowers,
I seek my favorite glen,
While warm winds wanton with the twinkling leaves,
And pass in pleasant idleness the hours.
Where a dark arbor, by the mingling boughs
Of two gigantic hemlock-trees, is made,
I rest my limbs, and with wild shout arouse
The ruffed-grouse from her cover in the shade;
The tapping flicker does not keep aloof,
But plies his noisy bill above my head,