Stirring the leaves which seem to dance with joy.
No more the beauteous landscape in its pride
Of summer loveliness—when every tree
Is crowned with foliage, and each blooming flower
Speaks by its breath its presence though unseen—
For me has charms; although in early days,
Ere care and grief had dulled the sense of joy,
No eye more raptured gazed upon the scene
Of woody dell, green slope, or heath-clad hill;
Nor ear with more delight drank in the strains