“ 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. 
