The sun is low, Its beams break through, And over violets in bloom Streaks bright yellow on a blue, Leaves hang there, green and wild, In the golden hour, Where the world distills the spirit, With nectar so sweet and pure.

Birds call out, In wild beauty there, From their branches, Unfolding the air With Warbler’s song, In whispered calls resound For the heart to know Where tranquility is found.

• Henry David Thoreau