On woody mount, in mossy dell, Who hath not felt that magic spell That steals o'er heart and brain, A sweet delight that ebbs and flows As freely as the zephyr blows, Or falls the summer rain.
How well I know its every mood— That gentle spirit of the wood! That bids all sorrow cease; A subtle something in the air That softly steals away all care, And fills the soul with peace.
It lives and breathes in every flower, It whispers in the leafy bower Where drowsy insects drone; It rises into sweetest swells Where the sequestered veery dwells And chants his love alone.
It bursts into a mighty roar When winter sweeps the forest hoar With howling hurricane; It murmurs low in brooklet flood, And smiles in every bursting bud When spring comes back again.
When autumn lights her crimson flame What artist would not give his fame To paint so rich and rare? When winter robes the firs in white, Resplendent in the morning light What jewels tremble there!
How soft the wind of summer eves That gently whispers in the leaves Of lordly forest trees? How wild the whirling tempest's breath That wails the dirge of summer's death In magic minor keys!
Ah, Nature! wrap thy dreamy shade About the life that thou hast made, And let me slumber long! Thine echoes softly, sweetly roll Through hidden chambers of the soul, And teach the poet song.
