PRELUDE PLEASANT it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low, To lie amid some sylvan scene, Where, the long drooping boughs between, Shadows dark and sunlight sheen Alternate come and go; Or where the denser grove receives No sunlight from above, But the dark foliage interweaves In one unbroken roof of leaves, Beneath some patriarchal tree I lay upon the ground; His hoary arms up-lifted he, And all the broad leaves over me Clapped their little hands in glee, A slumberous sound, a sound that brings The feelings of a dream, As of innumerable wings," As when a bell no longer swings, Faint the hollow murmur rings O'er meadow, lake, and stream. And dreams of that which cannot die, Bright visions, came to me, As lapped in thought I used to lie, Where the sailing clouds went by, Dreams, that the soul of youth engage Old legends of the monkish page, Traditions of the saint and sage, Tales that have the rime of age, And chronicles of Eld. And loving still these quaint old themes, Even in the city's throng, I feel the freshness of the streams, That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, Water the green land of dreams, The holy land of song. Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings The Spring, clothed like a bride, When nestling buds unfold their wings, Musing upon many things, I sought the woodlands wide. The green trees whispered low and mild, It was a sound of joy! They were my playmates when a child, And rocked me in their arms so wild! Still they looked at me and smiled, As if I were a boy; And ever whispered, mild and low, And waved their long arms to and fro, O, I could not choose but go, Into the woodlands hoar; Into the blithe and breathing air, Into the solemn wood, Solemn and silent everywhere! Nature with folded hands seemed there, Kneeling at her evening prayer! Like one in prayer I stood. |