Chapter VIII

Lonely these meadows green,
Silent these warbling woodlands must appear
To us, by whom our poet-sage was seen
Wandering among their beauties, year by year,—
Listening with delicate ear
To each fine note that fell from tree or sky,
Or rose from earth on high:
Glancing that falcon eye,
In kindly radiance as of some young star,
At all the shows of Nature near and far,
Or on the tame procession plodding by,
Of daily toil and care,—and all life’s pageantry;
Then darting forth warm beams of wit and love,
Wide as the sun’s great orbit, and as high above
These paths wherein our lowly tasks we ply.