There is a wood, not far from where I pass
My unrecorded hours in pleasant toil;--
Each tangle of the spreading boughs I know
And where each bird doth nestle; every poc
That makes a mirror for the quivering leaves;
The days are past when I could wander on
And lose myself, expecting at each turn
New pillared avenues of stately trees,
And glimpses of far waters. Even thus
With all the joy and beauty of this Earth
Become familiar things; wonder shall yield
To cold arrangement; and the voices deep
Of the great Kings of Song shall cease to stir
Mine inner fount of tears. The power of God
Shall not be thereby shortened in my soul,
But in my weakness rather perfect made,
In the sure progress of untroubled Love
That heals the fevered heart; as in the morn
Upon the fading of the partial stars
Wins the calm Daylight, over all diffused.