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From the night's first quick fire-fly, lost again In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze Comes through the forest. In this new, strange world, Oh! how mysterious, how eternal, seems The mighty melancholy of the woods! The desert's own great spirit, infinite! Little they know, in mine own father-land, Along the castled Rhine, or e'en amidst The wild Harz mountains, or the silvan glades Deep in the Odenwald, they little know Of what is solitude! In hours like this, There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage hearths Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices, To guide the peasant, singing cheerily, On the home path; while round his lowly porch, With eager eyes awaiting his return, The clustered faces of his children shine To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts!