Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Nature

Nature.

I love to sit upon some steepThat overhangs the billowy deep,  And hear the waters roar;I love to see the big waves fly,And swell their bosoms to the sky,  Then burst upon the shore.

I love, when seated on its brow,To look o'er all the world below,  And eye the distant vale;From thence to see the waving corn,With yellow hue the hills adorn,  And bend before the gale.

I love far downward to beholdThe shepherd with his bleating fold,  And hear the tinkling soundOf little bell and mellow flute,Wafted on zephyrs, soft, now mute,  Then swell in echoes round.

I love to range the valleys too,And towering hills from thence to view,  Which rear their heads so high;When nought beside, around, is seenBut one extended space between,  And overhead the sky.

I love to see, at close of day,Spread o'er the hills the sun's broad ray,  While rolling down the west;When every cloud in rich attireAnd half the sky, that seems on fire,  For purple robes is drest.

I love when evening veils the sky,And the moon shines with silver ray,  To cast a glance around,And see ten thousand worlds of lightShine, ever new, and ever bright,  O'er the vast vault profound.

I love to let wild fancy stray,And walk the spangled milky way,  Up to the shining height,Where thousand thousand burning rays,Mingle in one eternal blaze,  And charm the ravished sight.

I love from thence to take my flight,Far downward on the beams of light,  And reach my native plain,Just as the flaming orb of dayDrives night, and mists, and shades away,  And cheers the world again.