Ii

Does not the moss retain some slight impress, Green-dented down, of where he lay or trod? Do not the flowers, so reticent, confess With conscious looks the contact of a god? Does not the very water garrulously Boast the indulgence of a deity? And hark!--in burly beech and sycamore How all the birds proclaim it! and the leaves Rejoice with clappings of their myriad hands! And shall not I believe, too, and adore, With such wide proof?--Yea, though my soul perceives No evident presence, still it understands.