AN OLD-WORLD THICKET.
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AN OLD-WORLD THICKET.
. . . "Una selva oscura."—Dante.
AWAKE or sleeping (for I know not which) I was or was not mazed within a woodWhere every mother-bird brought up her brood Safe in some leafy nicheOf oak or ash, of cypress or of beech,
Of silvery aspen trembling delicately, Of plane or warmer-tinted sycomore, Of elm that dies in secret from the core, Of ivy weak and free, Of pines, of all green lofty things that be.
Such birds they seemed as challenged each desire; Like spots of azure heaven upon the wing, Like downy emeralds that alight and sing, Like actual coals on fire, Like anything they seemed, and everything.
Such mirth they made, such warblings and such chat With tongue of music in a well-tuned beak, They seemed to speak more wisdom than we speak, To make our music flat And all our subtlest reasonings wild or weak.
