  Ah, God! were I away, away, By woodland-belted hills! There might be more in Thy bright day Than my poor spirit thrills. The elder coppice, banks of blooms, The spice-wood 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 wild flowers blue and gold Starred through the moss and grass. The ragged path that winds unto Lone cow-behaunted nooks, Through brambles to the shade and dew Of rocks and woody brooks. To see the minnows turn and gleam White sparkling bellies, all Shoot in gray schools adown the stream Let but a dead leaf fall. The buoyant pleasure and delight Of floating feathered seeds. Capricious wanderers soft and white Born of silk-bearing weeds. Ah, God! were I away, away, Among wild woods and birds! There were more soul within Thy day Than one might bless with words. |
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