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The Forest
The Forest

I love the forest; I could dwell among
That silent people, till my thoughts upgrew
In nobly ordered form, as to my view
Rose the succession of that lofty throng.

The mellow footstep on a ground of leaves
Formed by the slow decay of numerous years,
The couch of moss, whose growth alone appears
Beneath the fir’s inhospitable eaves,

The chirp and flutter of some single bird,
The rustle in the brake, - what precious store
Of joys have these on poets’ hearts conferred?

And then at times to send one’s own voice out,
In the full frolic of one startling shout,
Only to feel the after-stillness more.

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