The woods are silent, cold, and deep, And but for one loud snapping bough, Lo! all the earth is hushed as sleep, As if above the golden brow Of the still sun no lurid clouds Were hanging, since the morn was fair, As if no shadows in the shrouds Of sleep did dream, so deep, so rare. Yet the great silence weeps for tears, And over it like heaven would chime, The heart of man remembers fears, Joy, sorrow—all the worlds of time.

• Alfred Lord Tennyson