If the sun have just arisen, With its brightness to bedizen Clustered leaves, and vines, and flowers—and the dew-drops on the lawn— What a glory is before me— All around, beside, and o’er me— What a glory, all of colors that no human hand hath drawn! Or if it be at even, When soft breezes blow from heaven, And the glimmer of the twilight comes a-dancing through the leaves— Oh! how thick my brain is crowded With sweet images enshrouded— With sweet images enshrouded in the mists my fancy weaves! Little pools lie closely hidden In the woods, as if forbidden To reflect within their surface but a hand’s breadth of the sky— Where the turtle’s lonely whirring Is at evening ever stirring, Winning over the calm list’ner with its saddest melody. I have often sat, when saddened, And as often, too, when gladdened, At the side of these clear mirrors, where the sweetest dreams have slept; And the world beyond forgotten, Quiet thoughts would be begotten— Thoughts of Life, and Love, and Heaven, over which I fondly wept. And beside the river’s dashing, In the tumult of its plashing, I have felt my pulses quickened, and my spirits bravely stirred; Then below, where it runs slowly, And the boughs bend over lowly, My soul again was saddened, as by some enchanter’s word. Upon every tree are builded— By the garish sun ne’er gilded— Nests of songsters, close secluded in the still and welcome shades; And within their snug dominions I can see the fledging pinions Of the callow young, grown restless in their leafy colonnades. The fresh morning air is ringing With a concord of sweet singing, From a million throats all pouring out their melody of praise; High within the sylvan arches Of the chestnuts, holms, and larches, Sounds the hymning of these songsters in the forest’s darkened maze. I love to sit at morning, In the glory of the dawning Of the sunlight, flashing over the high eastern hills afar, On this broad piazza olden, Where the gray streaks and the golden Come a-streaming from their chambers through the vines that curtains are. The hawthorn and the holly, Bearing berries red and jolly, Are inwoven with the bushes that run riot with them all; And like caps of grenadiers The dark moss in clumps appears— The dark moss that stands in bunches all along the garden wall. O, ’tis glorious in October, When the sky is clear and sober, To rove among the beauties that abound at Riverside! For the forest is all blazing With the Autumn colors, raising Painted groves, and tinted arbors, where was naught but green beside,