William Croswell

THE THICKLY woven boughs they wreathe

Through every hallow’d fane,

A soft reviving odor breathe

Of Summer’s gentle reign;

And rich the ray of mild green light

Which like an emerald’s glow,

Comes struggling through the latticed height,

Upon the crowds below.

O let the streams of solemn thought

Which in those temples rise

From deeper sources spring than aught

Dependant on the skies.

Then though the summer’s glow departs,

And winter’s withering chill

Rests on the cheerless woods, our hearts

Shall be unchanging still.