But some, who find in thee a word exceeding
Even thy power of speech--
To whom each song,--like an oak-leaf crimson, bleeding,
Fallen,--can teach
Tidings of that high forest whence it came
Where the wooded mountain-slope in one vast flame
Burns as the Autumn kindles on its quest--
These rapt diviners gather close to thee:--
Whom now the Winter holds in dateless fee
Sealèd of rest.