it is here in the woods. The trees
Stand motionless, as if they
did not dare
To stir, lest it should break
the spell. The air
Hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze.
Even this little brook, that runs at ease,
Whispering and gurgling in its
Seems but to deepen with its
Of sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences.
a hawk screams or a woodpecker
Startles the stillness from
its fixèd mood
With his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hear
dreamy white-throat from some far-off tree
Pipe slowly on the listening
five pure notes succeeding pensively.