Thomas Westwood (1814–1888)

SLOW, horses, slow,

As thro’ the wood we go—

We would count the stars in heaven,

Hear the grasses grow:

Watch the cloudlets few

Dappling the deep blue,

In our open palms outspread

Catch the blessèd dew.

Slow, horses, slow,

As thro’ the wood we go—

We would see fair Dian rise

With her huntress bow:

We would hear the breeze

Ruffling the dim trees,

Hear its sweet love-ditty set

To endless harmonies.

Slow, horses, slow,

As thro’ the wood we go—

All the beauty of the night

We would learn and know!