IN THE HEMLOCKS 



look, and seems ill at ease under such premature 

 honors. A decayed hemlock is draped as if by 

 hands for some solemn festival. 



Mounting toward the upland again, I pause rev- 

 erently as the hush and stillness of twilight come 

 upon the woods. It is the sweetest, ripest hour of 

 the day. And as the hermit's evening hymn goes 

 up from the deep solitude below me, I experience 

 that serene exaltation of sentiment of which music, 

 literature, and religion are but the faint types and 

 symbols. 



1865. 



