A green and silent spot, amid the hills.
A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place.
No singing sky-lark ever poised himself.
The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope.
Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on.
All golden with the never-bloomless furze.
Which now blooms most profusely, but the dell.
Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate.
As vernal cornfield, or the unripe flax.
When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve.
The level sunshine glimmers with green light.
O! 'tis quiet spirit-healing nook!
Which all, methinks, would love.