And music make. Sweet rivulets
Slip here and there from out the crevices
Of rifled rocks, and, welling ’mid the roots
Of prostrate trees or blocks transversely east,
Form jets of driven snow. Soft symphonies
Of birds unseen, on ev’ry side swell out,
As if the spirit of the wood complain’d
Harmonious, and most prodigal of sound;
And these can woo the spirit with such power,
And tune it to a mood so exquisite—