The Valley Soft veils of blue receding, fading

Into shadows, endless sides of green,

Sheltered by lofty sentinels

In the valley—silent lad of earth,

Hovering like an aerial god,

Waiting for whispers to arise,

As ghostly wraiths of ancient dreams

Float on the edge of the woods,

Where the wild flowers shimmer.

Time itself seems lost in this soft

Mirroring glow of tranquility,

Here the touches of a thousand suns,

Drenching life in a sweet, hushed rest.

And I am caught in the soft silence,

Content to rest beside the stream.

• John Gould Fletcher