The Spirit of Poetry

There is a quiet spirit in these woods,That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.With what a tender and impassioned voiceIt fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,When the fast ushering star of morning comesO'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,Departs with silent pace! That spirit movesIn the green valley, where the silver brook,From its full laver, pours the white cascade;And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.And frequent, on the everlasting hills,Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itselfIn all the dark embroidery of the storm,And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amidThe silent majesty of these deep woods,Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,As to the sunshine and the pure, bright airTheir tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bardsHave ever loved the calm and quiet shades.For them there was an eloquent voice in allThe sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,The swelling upland, where the sidelong sunAslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,In many a lazy syllable, repeatingTheir old poetic legends to the wind.

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fillThe world; and, in these wayward days of youth,My busy fancy oft embodies it,As a bright image of the light and beautyThat dwell in nature; of the heavenly formsWe worship in our dreams, and the soft huesThat stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the cloudsWhen the sun sets. Within her tender eyeThe heaven of April, with its changing light,And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hairIs like the summer tresses of the trees,When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheekBlushes the richness of an autumn sky,With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,It is so like the gentle air of Spring,As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comesFull of their fragrance, that it is a joyTo have it round us, and her silver voiceIs the rich music of a summer bird,Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.