  Ah, God! were I away, away By woodland-belted hills! There might be more in this bright day Than my poor spirit thrills. The elder coppice, banks of blooms; The spicewood brush; the field Of tumbled clover, and perfumes Hot, weedy pastures yield. The old rail-fence, whose angles hold Bright briar and sassafras; Sweet, priceless wildflowers, blue and gold, Starred through the moss and grass. The ragged path that winds unto Lone, bird-melodious nooks, Through brambles to the shade and dew Of rocks and woody brooks. To see the minnows flash and gleam Like sparkling prisms; all Shoot in gray schools adown the stream Let but a dead leaf fall! To feel the buoyance and delight Of floating, feathered seeds! Capricious wisps of wandering white Born of silk-bearing weeds. Ah, God! were I away, away Among wild woods and birds, There were more soul in this bright day Than one could bless with words. |
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