I love this passage of the green, Where whispers watch like timid fairies dine, The silence grows more and more serene, Within these thoughtful woods, I find.

Across the labyrinth of stone, The river murmurs its sweet refrain, And ancient oaks have built them a throne, Within these shrouded paths of rain.

The fluttering leaf, a passing glance, A rush unlike the winter’s cold, The garden shakes like a merry dance, While blooms unfold, a sight to behold.

• William Wordsworth