Vi

The sad, sweet voice of some wood-spirit who Laments while watching a loved oak-tree die, From the deep forest comes the wood-dove’s coo, A long, lost, lonely cry.-- Oh, for a breeze! a mighty wind to woo The woods to stormy laughter; sow like grain The world with freshness of invisible dew, And pile above far, fevered hill and plain Cloud-bastions, black with rain.