I sometime at sweet even go
Forth to the greenwood tree,
To watch the day-flush fading slow
Over the west countrie.
There, sitting on a gnarled root,
I place my hand upon my cheek—
And sitting thus, whole hours, all mute,
Feeding on thought too rich to speak,
I hear the ever rushing wings
Of the many cloudy things
Which are my brain's imaginings.
And sometime am quite happy—quite—
Under the influence, soft and holy,
Of the eve's bough-broken light,
(Bough-broken and most melancholy!)
Quite happy! and my fingers pass
Over my brow and through my hair,
In rude—rude mimicry, alas!
Of the soft fingers slim and fair
That once were so familiar there—
But which now death-eaten are.
So I do sit me down and dream—
Acquaint with mystery; and seem
To prying Ouphes a happy mortal,
And seem aright!—For through the portal
Of joyful meditation stream
All bright and lovely things. But then
These come not to the haunts of men,
And I, (sad I!) am happy only
In the old wood, dim and lonely!