The time has been that these wild solitudes,

      Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me

      Oftener than now; and when the ills of life

      Had chafed my spirit – when the unsteady pulse

      Beat with strange flutterings – I would wander forth

      And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path

      Was to me as a friend. The swelling hills,

      The quiet dells retiring far between,

      With gentle invitation to explore

      Their windings, were a calm society

      That talked with me and soothed me. Then the chant

      Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress

      Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget

      The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began

      To gather simples by the fountain's brink,

      And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood

      In Nature's loneliness, I was with one

      With whom I early grew familiar, one

      Who never had a frown for me, whose voice

      Never rebuked me for the hours I stole

      From cares I loved not, but of which the world

      Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked

      The bleak November winds, and smote the woods,

      And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades.

      That met above the merry rivulet.

      Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still; they seemed

      Like old companions in adversity.

      Still there was beauty in my walks; the brook,

      Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay

      As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar,

      The village with its spires, the path of streams

      And dim receding valleys, hid before

      By interposing trees, lay visible

      Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts

      Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come

      Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts,

      Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow,

      And all was white. The pure keen air abroad,

      Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard

      Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee,

      Was not the air of death, Bright mosses crept

      Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds,

      That lay along the boughs, instinct with life,

      Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring,

      Feared not the piercing spirit of the North.

      The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough,

      And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent

      Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry

      A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves,

      The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow

      The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track

      Of fox, and the raccoon's broad path, were there,

      Crossing each other. From his hollow tree

      The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts

      Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway

      Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold.

      But Winter has yet brighter scenes – he boasts

      Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows;

      Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods

      All flushed with many hues. Come when the rains

      Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice,

      While the slant sun of February pours

      Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach!

      The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,

      And the broad arching portals of the grove

      Welcome thy entering. Look! the massy trunks

      Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray,

      Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,

      Is studded with its trembling water-drops,

      That glimmer with an amethystine light.

      But round the parent-stem the long low boughs

      Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hide

      The glassy floor. Oh! you might deem the spot

      The spacious cavern of some virgin mine,

      Deep in the womb of earth – where the gems grow,

      And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud

      With amethyst and topaz – and the place

      Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam

      That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall

      Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night,

      And fades not in the glory of the sun; —

      Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts

      And crossing arches; and fantastic aisles

      Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost

      Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye;

      Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault;

      There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud

      Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams

      Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose,

      And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air,

      And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light;

      Light without shade. But all shall pass away

      With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks

      Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound

      Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve

      Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont.

      And it is pleasant, when the noisy streams

      Are just set free, and milder suns melt off

      The plashy snow, save only the firm drift

      In the deep glen or the close shade of pines —

      'Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smoke

      Roll up among the maples of the hill,

      Where the shrill sound of youthful voices wakes

      The shriller echo, as the clear pure lymph,

      That from the wounded trees, in twinkling drops,

      Falls, mid the golden