" Here are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines, 

 That stream with gray-green mosses : here the ground 

 Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up 

 Unsown and die ungathered. It is sweet 

 To linger here among the flitting birds, 

 And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks and winds 

 That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass 

 A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set 

 With pale blue berries." BRYANT. 



