26.12.2010, 12:53
A FOREST LAKE.
O lake of sylvan shore ! when gentle Spring
Slopes down upon thee from the mountain side,
When birds begin to build and brood and sing ;
Or, in maturer season, when the pied
And fragrant turf is throng'd with blossoms rare ;
In the frore sweetness of the breathing morn.
When the loud echoes of the herdsman's horn
Do sally forth upon the silent air
Of thy thick forestry, may I be there.
While the wood waits to see its phantom born
At clearing twilight, in thy glassy breast ;
Or, when cool eve is busy, on thy shores.
With trails of purple shadow from the West,
Or dusking in the wake of tardy oars.^
O lake of sylvan shore ! when gentle Spring
Slopes down upon thee from the mountain side,
When birds begin to build and brood and sing ;
Or, in maturer season, when the pied
And fragrant turf is throng'd with blossoms rare ;
In the frore sweetness of the breathing morn.
When the loud echoes of the herdsman's horn
Do sally forth upon the silent air
Of thy thick forestry, may I be there.
While the wood waits to see its phantom born
At clearing twilight, in thy glassy breast ;
Or, when cool eve is busy, on thy shores.
With trails of purple shadow from the West,
Or dusking in the wake of tardy oars.^