Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/464



is no Solitude; These brown woods speak In tones most musical—this limpid river Chaunts a low song, to be forgotten never!— These my beloved companions are so meek, So soul-sustaining, I were crazed to seek Again the tumult, the o'erpowering hum, Which of the ever busy hiving city come— Parting us from ourselves.—Still let us breathe The heavenly air of contemplation here; And with old trees, grey stones, and runnels clear, Claim kindred and hold converse. He that seeth Upon this vesper spot no loveliness, Nor hears therein a voice of tenderness, Calling him friend, Nature in vain would bless!