The Complete Poems. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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      That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;

      Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,

      The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,

      The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.

      With what a tender and impassioned voice

      It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,

      When the fast ushering star of morning comes

      O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;

      Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,

      In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,

      Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves

      In the green valley, where the silver brook,

      From its full laver, pours the white cascade;

      And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,

      Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.

      And frequent, on the everlasting hills,

      Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself

      In all the dark embroidery of the storm,

      And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid

      The silent majesty of these deep woods,

      Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,

      As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air

      Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards

      Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.

      For them there was an eloquent voice in all

      The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,

      The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,

      Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,

      The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun

      Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,

      Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,

      Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,

      The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,

      In many a lazy syllable, repeating

      Their old poetic legends to the wind.

       And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill

      The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,

      My busy fancy oft embodies it,

      As a bright image of the light and beauty

      That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms

      We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues

      That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds

      When the sun sets. Within her tender eye

      The heaven of April, with its changing light,

      And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,

      And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair

      Is like the summer tresses of the trees,

      When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek

      Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,

      With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,

      It is so like the gentle air of Spring,

      As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes

      Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy

      To have it round us, and her silver voice

      Is the rich music of a summer bird,

      Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.