Dernière mise à jour : 26 janv. 2021
I love the stillness of the wood :
I love the music of the rill :
I love to couch in pensive mood
Upon some silent hill.
Scarce heard, beneath yon arching trees,
The silver-crested ripples pass ;
And, like a mimic brook, the breeze
Whispers among the grass.
Here from the world I win release,
Nor scorn of men, nor footstep rude,
Break in to mar the holy peace
Of this great solitude.
Here may the silent tears I weep
Lull the vexed spirit into rest,
As infants sob themselves to sleep
Upon a mother’s breast.
But when the bitter hour is gone,
And the keen throbbing pangs are still,
Oh sweetest then to couch alone
Upon some silent hill !
To live in joys that once have been,
To put the cold world out of sight,
And deck life’s drear and barren scene
With hues of rainbow-light.
For what to man the gift of breath,
If sorrow be his lot below ;
If all the day that ends in death
Be dark with clouds of woe ?
Shall the poor transport of an hour
Repay long years of sore distress —
The fragrance of a lonely flower
Make glad the wilderness ?
Ye golden hours of Life’s young spring,
Of innocence, of love and truth !
Bright, beyond all imagining,
Thou fairy-dream of youth !
I’d give all wealth that years have piled,
The slow result of Life’s decay,
To be once more a little child
For one bright summer-day.
March 16, 1853