The impulses of air and sky
Have rear'd their stately heads so high,
And clothed their boughs with green;
Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,--
And when the wind blows loud and keen,
I've seen the jolly timbers laugh,
And shake their sides with merry glee--
Wagging their heads in mockery.
Fix'd are their feet in solid earth,
Where winds can never blow;
But visitings of deeper birth
Have reach'd their roots below.
For they have gain'd the river's brink,
And of the living waters drink.
There's little Will, a five years child--
He is my youngest boy:
To look on eyes so fair and wild,
It is a very joy:--
He hath conversed with sun and shower,
And dwelt with every idle flower,
As fresh and gay as them.
He loiters with the briar rose,--
The blue-belles are his play-fellows,
That dance upon their slender stem.
And I have said, my little Will,
Why should not he continue still
A thing of Nature's rearing?
A thing beyond the world's control--
A living vegetable soul,--
No human sorrow fearing.
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