Beneath an ancient elm-tree’s broadest shade,1
In mood of idleness that rusteth not,2
Dull work-day ploddings are an hour forgot,3
And finer fancies round the soul are laid4
In tender ministration. Earth arrayed5
In August vesture is a charmed spot6
A small bright chequer on our sombre lot7
And fairy voices come from mead and glade,8
Sound from the humming bee that saileth by,9
In the light footfall of the bounding deer,10
And in the rivulet that trickles nigh, :11
Telling in accents musically clear,12
Which float far upwards to the azure sky,13
A thousand secrets for the Poet’s ear !14