  A road disused these many years, O'er which the grass has grown Between two rows of silent pines, That stretch in straight, unbroken lines Away to plains unknown. Long ruts that passing wagons made In days whose records die Form trenches for the frailer flowers, That timid of more open bowers Secure in hiding lie. And in those deep impressions there, Where patient beasts have trod, With stems in dainty green array, And faces turned to meet the day, Grow sprays of golden-rod, 'Mid sunbeams slanting thro' the wood The ardent Afternoon Steals like a lover fond, and dumb, Upon his mistress Earth, o'ercome With many a tender boon; And that she sooner shall respond To his awakening fires, He summons from each fairy glade Wee winged things, to serenade This nymph of his desires. So full of mystic power and life Is this forgotten place That I may scarcely dare intrude My presence and my lighter mood, Lest stepping I deface Some masterpiece of moss or bloom, That Dryad hands have wrought, Perchance my very humanness May make this potent charm the less, That solitude has taught. I fear to tread upon a branch, For if beneath my feet It breaks 'twould thus affright the bird Whose tender music I have heard In yonder green retreat; And who am I that I should dare Gainsay the Noon's behest; Or penetrate this peaceful sphere, And bring an agony of fear To some dumb creature's breast? Within this forest night and day An endless hymn of praise From out the heart of Nature wells, That once again perfection dwells In her profanÈd ways, That living green conceals the scars Made by relentless man, While in the deepest sylvan glades Sound faint and far thro' emerald shades The crystal pipes of Pan. |
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