IN THE WOOD
On woody mount, in mossy dell,
Who hath not felt that magic spell
That steals o'er heart and brain,
A sweet delight that ebbs and flows
As freely as the zephyr blows,
Or falls the summer rain.
Who hath not felt that magic spell
That steals o'er heart and brain,
A sweet delight that ebbs and flows
As freely as the zephyr blows,
Or falls the summer rain.
How well I know its every mood—
That gentle spirit of the wood!
That bids all sorrow cease;
A subtle something in the air
That softly steals away all care,
And fills the soul with peace.
That gentle spirit of the wood!
That bids all sorrow cease;
A subtle something in the air
That softly steals away all care,
And fills the soul with peace.
It lives and breathes in every flower,
It whispers in the leafy bower
Where drowsy insects drone;
It rises into sweetest swells
Where the sequestered veery dwells
And chants his love alone.
It whispers in the leafy bower
Where drowsy insects drone;
It rises into sweetest swells
Where the sequestered veery dwells
And chants his love alone.
It bursts into a mighty roar
When winter sweeps the forest hoar
With howling hurricane;
It murmurs low in brooklet flood,
And smiles in every bursting bud
When spring comes back again.
When winter sweeps the forest hoar
With howling hurricane;
It murmurs low in brooklet flood,
And smiles in every bursting bud
When spring comes back again.
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