In an old wood, reputed for its age, And for its beauty wild and picturesque; The bound and goal of each day's pilgrimage, Where were all forms of graceful and grotesque; And countless hues, from the dark stately pine That whispered its wild mysteries to my ear, To the smooth silver of the birch-trees shine, Showing between the aspens straight and fair; With forest flowers, and delicate vines that crept From the rich soil far up among the trees, Seeking that light their boughs did intercept, And dalliance and caresses of the breeze. In midst of these, sheltered from sun and wind Glimmered a lake, in long and shining curves, Like a bright fillet that should serve to bind That scene to earth--if she the gem deserves! For gem it was, as proud upon her brow As jewels on the forehead of a queen; And one thought as one turned from it, of how Eve exiled, must have missed some just such scene. O, there I type my life! I used to sigh Sitting on this side, with my lap piled up With violets of the real sapphire dye, For the gay gold of the bright buttercup Spangling the green sod on the other side-- For the lake's breadth was but an arrow's flight, And the brief distance did not serve to hide What yet could not be reached except by sight. Day after day I dreamed there, while my heart Gathered up knowledge in its childish way, Making fine pictures with unconscious art, And learning beauty more and more each day. Ever and ever haunted I that spot-- Sitting in dells scooped out between the hills, That rising close around me, formed a grot Fragrant with ferns, and musical with rills. Far up above me grew the long-armed beech, Dropping its branches down in graceful bent; While farther up, beyond my utmost reach, Stood dusky hemlocks, crowning the ascent. And all about were sweeter sights and sounds Than elsewhere, but in poet's dream, abounds.