H. D. THOREAU. 



Many long years have fled 

 Since thou wast gone — 



Gone ! aye, yet still not dead ; 

 Thou livest on ! 



In every zephyr breeze 



That wanders lone, 

 Whispering among the trees 



With listless tone — 



Striking on harpstrings free 



Sweet sylvan chords, 

 While every list'ning tree 



Breathless applauds — 



In all the songs of birds, 



Mid woodlands lone, 

 I hear thy noble words 



Sadder of tone. 



E'er through their music throng, 



It seems to me, 

 Whispers of heavenly song 



That speak of thee. 



And in the rippling streams 



That softly sing, 

 Thy voice for ever seems 



Through them to ring. 

 * * # 



See where the winding creek 



Pierces the land 

 In a clear silver streak, 



Woods on each hand ! 



