Ah, God! were I away, away
By woodland-belted hills!
There might be more in this bright day
Than my poor spirit thrills.
The elder coppice, banks of blooms;
The spicewood brush; the field
Of tumbled clover, and perfumes
Hot, weedy pastures yield.
The old rail-fence, whose angles hold
Bright briar and sassafras;
Sweet, priceless wildflowers, blue and gold,
Starred through the moss and grass.
The ragged path that winds unto
Lone, bird-melodious nooks,
Through brambles to the shade and dew
Of rocks and woody brooks.
To see the minnows flash and gleam
Like sparkling prisms; all
Shoot in gray schools adown the stream
Let but a dead leaf fall!
To feel the buoyance and delight
Of floating, feathered seeds!
Capricious wisps of wandering white
Born of silk-bearing weeds.
Ah, God! were I away, away
Among wild woods and birds,
There were more soul in this bright day
Than one could bless with words.