By William Ellery Channing.

A light lies on the Western hill,
A purple on the sleeping sea,
And on the trickling forest rill,
Though bringeth that no joy to me.

The children of the budding Spring
Are mantling in the solemn woods,
And clear the forest minstrels sing
To Nature, in most joyous moods.

But there is that I deeper prize,
Beyond the form of everything —
The smile within thy vivid eyes,
The graces that around thee cling.