I always roved the woodlands o'er,
In the early time of spring;
But never had discerned before,
What, seeing now, I sing:
So faileth oft the soul to see
The beauty round it rife,
That none may think how sweet would be
Perfectly visioned life.

No young green leaves bedecked the trees,
Only the thrush did sing,
And his song rose not, but did steal,
Timidly whispering;
No flowers did paint the wind-swept meads,
No fragrance skimmed the air;
The sunshine on the ponds shone cold, --
Cold were the paths, and bare.

But the sky was blue with its own soft blue,
And the sunshine pierced the wind,
And would cling to the trunks of the forest kings,
Where the shivering primrose pined:
And there was not a cloud to mar the hope
That shone in the soft blue sky;
And the air was so clear, that the wrinkles of care
Were smiled away from the eye.

When, gazing round me, gentlest rest
Into my soul did flow;
Such rest as summer evening sends,
When labourers homeward go;
I knew not whence this rest could come, --
The air was busy and bright,
And the forest torrent raged along,
Heavily rolling white.

I laid beneath an ancient elm,
Vexed to be made the slave
Of influence I could not see,
Or appropriate, or outbrave;
But as mine eyes did read the boughs
Countlessly o'er me wove;
There came to me even gentler rest,
And then no more I strove;

But passive lay, till I surmised
'Twas the tree that gave the rest;
And I sent my gaze through all his boughs,
With loving and trusting quest;
No leaves were winged, its sprigs and stems,
Countlessly many, I saw;
They all did flourish different wise,
Yet none did apart withdraw.

And I noticed they all were rounded soft,
And feathered with buds of down;
And, though hued with the hue of juicy life,
Richly and greenishly brown,
That these multitudinous varying boughs,
Unteased with leaves slept still;
Hence cometh my rest, I cried and rose,
And gazed at each tree-clad hill.

And in bold relief against the sky,
Everywhere round me, rose
Innumerably, these leafless trees;
And I saw the deep repose--
Not a torpid sleep, but a living rest--
In their soft and nervelike boughs,
Spread betwixt me and that azure heaven,
Whose lustre such vision allows.

And now I maintain that the earliest spring,
Though boasting no scarlet and green,
Hath its own peculiar beauteousness,
In the leafless and moveless treen;
Whose branches sleep in the golden air,
Passively bearing its tide;
Soft with the down of a thousand buds,
Unitedly branching wide.