Falls on the ear; and all around, the eye
Meets nought but hath a moral. These deep shades—
With here and there an upright trunk of ash
Or beech or nut, whose branches interlaced
O’ercanopy us, and, shutting out the day,
A twilight make—they press upon the heart
With force amazing and unutterable.
These trunks enormous, from the mountain side
Ripp’d roots and all by whirlwinds—those vast pines
Athwart the ravine’s melancholy gloom