The Spirit of Poetry

There is a quiet spirit in these woods, / That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows; / Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, / The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, / The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. / With what a tender and impassioned voice / It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, / When the fast ushering star of morning comes / O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; / Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, / In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, / Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves / In the green valley, where the silver brook, / From its full laver, pours the white cascade; / And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, / Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. / And frequent, on the everlasting hills, / Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself / In all the dark embroidery of the storm, / And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid / The silent majesty of these deep woods, / Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, / As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air / Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards / Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. / For them there was an eloquent voice in all / The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, / The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, / Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, / The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun / Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, / Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, / Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, / The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees, / In many a lazy syllable, repeating / Their old poetic legends to the wind.

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill / The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, / My busy fancy oft embodies it, / As a bright image of the light and beauty / That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms / We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues / That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds / When the sun sets. Within her tender eye / The heaven of April, with its changing light, / And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, / And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair / Is like the summer tresses of the trees, / When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek / Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, / With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, / It is so like the gentle air of Spring, / As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes / Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy / To have it round us, and her silver voice / Is the rich music of a summer bird, / Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.