In the Pine-Woods.

DIM distances that open through the pines,
Blue misty mountains sleeping in the west;
Beneath the tall tree-trunks I watch your lines
Waving beyond the field’s unshadowed breast.

Amid the pine-tops sighs the wandering air,
The locust’s trill swells dying on the breeze,
The cloudless August noon to me doth wear
The sadness of life’s distant melodies.

Between me and the far horizon stream
The viewless spirits of the days long gone.
I see the landscape as from out a dream;
I hear the wind’s sigh—as if ‘t were my own.