Ampton, Suffolk

There is a wood, not far from where I pass My unrecorded hours in pleasant toil;-- Each tangle of the spreading boughs I know And where each bird doth nestle; every poc That makes a mirror for the quivering leaves; The days are past when I could wander on And lose myself, expecting at each turn New pillared avenues of stately trees, And glimpses of far waters. Even thus With all the joy and beauty of this Earth Become familiar things; wonder shall yield To cold arrangement; and the voices deep Of the great Kings of Song shall cease to stir Mine inner fount of tears. The power of God Shall not be thereby shortened in my soul, But in my weakness rather perfect made, In the sure progress of untroubled Love That heals the fevered heart; as in the morn Upon the fading of the partial stars Wins the calm Daylight, over all diffused.