The brook glideth shadowy and green,
White shimmering gown of soft petals;
Upon the cold bosom lay,
The lilies of the wooded valley.
No path doth go, no feet doth tread,
No breaketh the mossy silk of floor.
No wind shall howl its dreary moan,
But gentle it lingers over the haze.
And bloweth softly through the leaves,
Hung low in the sleepy woods.