Thou fleest far into the dark green woods, Where, with thy flood of music, thou canst win

Their heart to harmony, and where intrudes
No discord on thy melodies. Oh, where,
Among the sweet musicians of the air,
Is one so dear as thou to these old solitudes ?

Ha! what a burst was that! The Eolian strain

Goes floating through the tangled pas

sages

Of the still woods; and now it comes again, A multitudinous melody, like a rain

Of glassy music under echoing trees, Close by a ringing lake. It wraps the soul With a bright harmony of happiness, Even as a gem is wrapped when round it roll

Thin waves of crimson flame, till we become,

With the excess of perfect pleasure, dumb,

And pant like a swift runner clinging to the goal.

I cannot love the man who doth not love, As men love light, the song of happy birds;

For the first visions that my boy-heart

wove,

To fill its sleep with, were that I did rove Through the fresh woods, what time the snowy herds

Of morning clouds shrunk from the advancing sun,

Into the depths of Heaven's blue heart, as words

From the poet's lips float gently, one by one, And vanish in the human heart; and then

I revelled in such songs, and sorrowed, when,

With noon-heat overwrought, the musicgush was done.

I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee,

Amid the eloquent grandeur of these shades,

Alone with Nature! - but it may not be:
I have to struggle with the stormy sea
Of human life until existence fades
Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and

soar

They cannot live without thine eyes to feed them with their light;

Since thy hands ceased to train them, Love, they cannot grow aright;

Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore !

Our little ones inquire of me, where is their mother gone:

What answer can I make to them, except with tears alone?

For if I say "To Heaven," then the poor things wish to learn

How far it is, and where, and when their mother will return;

Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore !