The moss is green upon the tree,
The leaves are green upon the spray,
And I will rest beneath the shade,
And watch their ceaseless revelry.
Know ye the wild anemone?
'Tis blooming here alone for me,—
The lilies and the blue-bells too,
And violets gemmed with drops of dew.

The leaves half hide and yet reveal
The far-off dimples of the sky,
As a maiden's veil which should conceal
Yet makes more languishing her eye;
And 'twixt the branches overhead
A brightness with their shade is shed—
A trembling, dancing, furtive light,
Appearing oft in dreams by night.

And here are green, inviting bowers,
Such as of old the Dryads haunted,
And perfumes shed by unseen flow'rs,
And strains by mystic voices chanted.
But silent all, no human tread,
Save mine, is heard the glades among
For me the fragrance all is shed,
For me the mystic lay is sung.

Here is a streamlet by whose side
The Naiads wandered long agone,
Ere old mythology had died,
And mankind's heart was turned to stone.
The Indian sought it year by year,
And listened to its rippling glee;
But he is gone, and I am here,
And all its rippling is for me.

The woodland grass is tall and rank,
And hath a soothing, mead'wy smell
The antlered ranger loveth well,—
In truth 'tis no unwholesome thing;
And here are leaflets grim and lank,
Besmeared with mildew cold and dank,
The relics of a by-gone spring.
The rocks are all with moss o'ergrown,
And ivy creepeth up and down;
The owl, in distant woods alone,
Sleeps soundly in his feathers brown;
But all the birds are carrolling
As Morning's stars were wont to sing.

As the low murmur of a brook,
(Go listen for the music's sake)
So is the murmur of the trees
But now a louder voice they take,
Look how they bend before the breeze!
The distant forest reels at length,
In vain the oak, the elm's strength,
Their waving tops now cleave the air.
O'er mountain brow, through hidden dell,
Where twilight gloom delights to dwell,
Hark! how their mighty voices swell
Like giants shouting in despair;
At length the breeze has reached the plain,
And silent are the woods again,
And, at my feet, the crazy light,
Which danced so wildly in my sight,
Lies in that still, calm dreaminess
Which man may feel but ne'er express.

Again there comes a roaring wind,
And with it drifts a murky cloud
As black and angry as the look
To Satan by the world assigned.
The pealing thunder rattles loud—
God! how yon sturdy hemlocks shook!
Down come the rain-drops in a crowd,
And whiten o'er the little brook.
Hark, how they dance amongst the leaves
And patter thence unto the earth,
While fiercer still the tempest heaves
The forest in its riant mirth!

Like wearied soldiers after fight,
At length the clouds have ceased to frown;
The rain comes slower, slower down,
And to the west a streak of light,
By wid'ning eastward glads the sight.
The foam has vanished from the rill,
The woods are marvellously bright,
The thirsty earth hath drunk its fill,
But all the trees are raining still!

Awake ye woods, unwonted strains!
They wake indeed afar and near.
The wild blood dances through my veins,
And glorious breathings meet mine ear.
The sounds, the voices and the throng
Of joyful birds, the whisper low
Of tree and stream entrance me long,
And thrill my being as they flow.

True are the friends that nature gives,
Their voices ever are the same;
The rock, the tree, the streamlet lives—
Each speaks to him who knows its name.
But Nature's heart is cold indeed
To sullen souls that cannot see
Some comfort in her face, and read
The warning and the mystery.