PLEASANT it was, when woods were green | |
| And winds were soft and low, | |
| To lie amid some sylvan scene, | |
| Where, the long drooping boughs between, | |
| Shadows dark and sunlight sheen | 5 |
| Alternate come and go; | |
| |
| Or where the denser grove receives | |
| No sunlight from above, | |
| But the dark foliage interweaves | |
| In one unbroken roof of leaves, | 10 |
| Underneath whose sloping eaves | |
| The shadows hardly move. | |
| |
| Beneath some patriarchal tree | |
| I lay upon the ground; | |
| His hoary arms uplifted he, | 15 |
| And all the broad leaves over me | |
| Clapped their little hands in glee, | |
| With one continuous sound;— | |
| |
| A slumberous sound, a sound that brings | |
| The feelings of a dream, | 20 |
| As of innumerable wings, | |
| As, when a bell no longer swings, | |
| Faint the hollow murmur rings | |
| O’er meadow, lake, and stream. | |
| |
| And dreams of that which cannot die, | 25 |
| Bright visions, came to me, | |
| As lapped in thought I used to lie, | |
| And gaze into the summer sky, | |
| Where the sailing clouds went by, | |
| Like ships upon the sea; | 30 |
| |
| Dreams that the soul of youth engage | |
| Ere Fancy has been quelled; | |
| Old legends of the monkish page, | |
| Traditions of the saint and sage, | |
| Tales that have the rime of age, | 35 |
| And chronicles of eld. | |
| |
| And, loving still these quaint old themes, | |
| Even in the city’s throng | |
| I feel the freshness of the streams, | |
| That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, | 40 |
| Water the green land of dreams, | |
| The holy land of song. | |
| |
| Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings | |
| The Spring, clothed like a bride, | |
| When nestling buds unfold their wings, | 45 |
| And bishop’s-caps have golden rings, | |
| Musing upon many things, | |
| I sought the woodlands wide. | |
| |
| The green trees whispered low and mild; | |
| It was a sound of joy! | 50 |
| They were my playmates when a child, | |
| And rocked me in their arms so wild! | |
| Still they looked at me and smiled, | |
| As if I were a boy; | |
| |
| And ever whispered, mild and low, | 55 |
| “Come, be a child once more!” | |
| And waved their long arms to and fro, | |
| And beckoned solemnly and slow; | |
| Oh, I could not choose but go | |
| Into the woodlands hoar,— | 60 |
| |
| Into the blithe and breathing air, | |
| Into the solemn wood, | |
| Solemn and silent everywhere! | |
| Nature with folded hands seemed there, | |
| Kneeling at her evening prayer! | 65 |
| Like one in prayer I stood. | |
| |
| Before me rose an avenue | |
| Of tall and sombrous pines; | |
| Abroad their fan-like branches grew, | |
| And, where the sunshine darted through, | 70 |
| Spread a vapor soft and blue, | |
| In long and sloping lines. | |
| |
| And, falling on my weary brain, | |
| Like a fast-falling shower, | |
| The dreams of youth came back again,— | 75 |
| Low lispings of the summer rain, | |
| Dropping on the ripened grain, | |
| As once upon the flower. | |
| |
| Visions of childhood! Stay, oh, stay! | |
| Ye were so sweet and wild! | 80 |
| And distant voices seemed to say, | |
| “It cannot be! They pass away! | |
| Other themes demand thy lay; | |
| Thou art no more a child! | |
| |
| “The land of Song within thee lies, | 85 |
| Watered by living springs; | |
| The lids of Fancy’s sleepless eyes | |
| Are gates unto that Paradise; | |
| Holy thoughts, like stars, arise; | |
| Its clouds are angels’ wings. | 90 |
| |
| “Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, | |
| Not mountains capped with snow, | |
| Nor forests sounding like the sea, | |
| Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, | |
| Where the woodlands bend to see | 95 |
| The bending heavens below. | |
| |
| “There is a forest where the din | |
| Of iron branches sounds! | |
| A mighty river roars between, | |
| And whosoever looks therein | 100 |
| Sees the heavens all black with sin, | |
| Sees not its depths, nor bounds. | |
| |
| “Athwart the swinging branches cast, | |
| Soft rays of sunshine pour; | |
| Then comes the fearful wintry blast; | 105 |
| Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast; | |
| Pallid lips say, ‘It is past! | |
| We can return no more!’ | |
| |
| “Look, then, into thine heart, and write! | |
| Yes, into Life’s deep stream! | 110 |
| All forms of sorrow and delight, | |
| All solemn Voices of the Night, | |
| That can soothe thee, or affright,— | |
| Be these henceforth thy theme.” | |
| |
