In Hilly Wood

How sweet to be thus nestling deep in boughs,
Upon an ashen stoven pillowing me;
Faintly are heard the ploughmen at their ploughs,
But not an eye can find its way to see.
The sunbeams scarce molest me with a smile,
So thickly the leafy armies gather round;
And where they do, the breeze blows cool the while,
Their leafy shadows dancing on the ground.
Full many a flower, too, wishing to be seen,
Perks up its head the hiding grass between,--
In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be;
Where all the noises, that on peace intrude,
Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee,
Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude.
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1 comment:

Nomad said...

Please forgive my poor memory, but this poem made me think of what I just was reading the other day in Jonathan Bate's biography, that one of John Clare's favourite trees to hide himself away in got cut down, and a carpenter who knew he was fond of it made a ruler for him out of some of the wood. I thought that was awfully kind of the carpenter, and wonder if he, too, had a favourite tree to hide in or under!