Field and

There is a field, that leans upon two hills,

Foamed o'er with flowers and twinkling with clear rills;

That in its girdle of wild acres bears

The anodyne of rest that cures all cares;

Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blent

And fragrance — as in some old instrument

Sweet chords — calm things, that nature's magic spell

Distils from heaven's azure crucible,

And pours on Earth to make the sick mind well.

There lies the path, they say —

Come, away! come, away!

There is a forest, lying‘ twixt two streams,

Sung through of birds and haunted of dim dreams;

That in its league-long hand of trunk and leaf

Lifts a green wand that charms away all grief;

Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things,

Vague, whispering touches, gleams and twitterings,

Dews and cool shadows — that the mystic soul

Of nature permeates with suave control,

And waves o'er earth to make the sad heart whole.

There lies the road, they say —

Come, away! come, away!