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ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 
T HERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, 
That dwells where’er the gentle south wind blows; 
Where, underneath the white thorn, in the glade, 
The wild flowers bloom, or kissing the soft air, 
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. 
With what a tender and impassioned voice 
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, 
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes 
O’er riding the gray hills with golden scarf; 
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, 
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate. 
Departs with silent pace ! That spirit moves 
In the green valley, where the silver brook, 
From its full laver, pours the white cascade; 
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, 
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. 
And frequent on tne everlasting hills, 
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself 
In all the dark embroidery of the storm, 
And shouts the stern strong wind. And here, amid 
The silent majesty of these deep woods, 
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth. 
As to the sunshine and the pure bright air 
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards 
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. 
For them there was an eloquent voice in all 
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, 
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, 
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds. 
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun 
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, 
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in. 
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, 
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees. 
In many a lazy syllable, repeating 
Their old poetic legends to the wind. 
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill 
The world, and in these wayward days of youth, 
My busy fancy oft embodies it, 
As a bright image of the light and beauty 
That dwell in nature ; of the heavenly forms 
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues 
That stain the wild bird’s wing, and flush the clouds 
