how still it is here in the woods. the trees
stand motionless, as if they do not dare
to stir, lest it should break the spell. the air
hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze.
even this little brook, that runs at ease,
whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed,
seems but to deepen with its curling thread
of sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences.