Poetry Archives

When pride and envy, and the scorn
  Of wealth my heart with gall imbued,
I thought how pleasant were the morn
  Of silence, in the solitude;
To hear the forest bee on wing;
Or by the stream, or woodland spring,
To lie and muse alone—alone,
While the tinkling waters moan,
Or such wild sounds arise, as say,
Man and noise are far away.

Now, surely, thought I, there’s enow
  To fill life’s dusty way;
And who will miss a poet’s feet,
  Or wonder where he stray:
So to the woods and wastes I’ll go,
  And I will build an osier bower,
And sweetly there to me shall flow
  The meditative hour.

And when the Autumn’s withering hand,
Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land,
I’ll to the forest caverns hie:
And in the dark and stormy nights
I’ll listen to the shrieking sprites,
Who, in the wintry wolds and floods,
Keep jubilee, and shred the woods;
Or, as it drifted soft and slow,
Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow.