Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/142

 ERY old are the woods;
 * And the buds that break

Out of the brier's boughs,
 * When March winds wake,

So old with their beauty are —
 * Oh, no man knows

Through what wild centuries
 * Roves back the rose.

Very old are the brooks;
 * And the rills that rise

Where snow sleeps cold beneath
 * The azure skies

Sing such a history
 * Of come and gone,

Their every drop is as wise
 * As Solomon.

Very old are we men;
 * Our dreams are tales

Told in dim Eden
 * By Eve's nightingales;