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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,
Underneath whose sloping eaves,

The shadows hardly move.

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,

With one continuous sound;·

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,
And gaze into the summer sky,

Where the sailing clouds went by,
Like ships upon the sea;

Dreams, that the soul of youth engage

Ere Fancy has been quelled;

Old legends of the monkish page,

Traditions of the saint and sage,

Tales that have the rime of


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,
And bishop's-caps have golden rings,
Musing upon many things,

I sought the woodlands wide.

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