With wither'd leaves is cover'd o'er,
You could not lay a hair between:
And all the year the bower is green.

But see! where'er the hailstones drop
The wither'd leaves all skip and hop,
There's not a breeze--no breath of air--
Yet here, and there, and every where

Along the floor, beneath the shade
By those embowering hollies made,
The leaves in myriads jump and spring,
As if with pipes and music rare
Some Robin Good-fellow were there,
And all those leaves, that jump and spring,
Were each a joyous, living thing.

Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease
That I may never cease to find,
Even in appearances like these
Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!





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