  I When the moon hangs low Over an afterglow, Lilac and lily; When the stars are high, Wisps in a windless sky, Silverly stilly:— He, who will lean, his inner ear compelling, May hear the spirit of the forest stream Its story to a wildwood flower telling, That is no flower but some ascended dream. II When the dawn's first lines Show dimly through the pines Along the mountain; When the stars are few, And starry lies the dew Around the fountain:— Who will, may hear, within her leafy dwelling, The spirit of the oak-tree, great and strong, Its romance to the wildwood streamlet telling, That is no stream but some descended song. |
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