The Wood
O searches of the haunted woods,
Where every sound doth lead,
From trickling brooks to fruiting buds,
To gently sing — in peace!
Where every shade doth stay to dream,
With rippling streams and light;
The lilies from the banks do gleam,
With gold and azure bright!
The skies shall hold you, here to trace,
The tears of morning dew;
In every wood a prayer to grace,
The blessed earth anew!
- William Hazlitt