Draw Closer, o Ye Trees

O quiet cottage room, Whose casements, looking o'er the garden-close, Are hid in wildings and the woodbine bloom And many a clambering rose,

Sweet is thy light subdued, Gracious and soft, lingering upon my book, As that which shimmers through the branched wood Above some dreamful nook!

Leaning within my chair, Through the curtain I can see the stir— The gentle undulations of the air— Sway the dark-layered fir;

And, in the beechen green, Mark many a squirrel romp and chirrup loud; While far beyond, the chestnut-boughs between, Floats the white summer cloud.

Through the loopholes in the leaves, Upon the yellow slopes of far-off farms, I see the rhythmic cradlers and the sheaves Gleam in the binders' arms.

At times I note, nearby, The flicker tapping on some hollow bole; And watch the sun, against the sky, The fluting oriole;

Or, when the day is done, And the warm splendors make the oak-top flush, Hear him, full-throated in the setting sun,— The darling wildwood thrush.

O sanctuary shade Enfold one round! I would no longer roam: Let not the thought of wandering e'er invade This still, reclusive home!

Draw closer, O ye trees! Veil from my sight e'en the loved mountain's blue; The world may be more fair beyond all these, Yet I would know but you!