Sunset dreams on fir-tre cones,
⁠Green—the hedge, and brown— the field;
Mossy rifts in weathered stones
⁠Meekly vernal waters yield.

Oh, look up the wooded steep—
⁠God has touched it with his palm;
Piously wild berries weep,
⁠Listening to the grassy psalm.

And I feel no fleshly tie;
⁠And my heart's a springing mead.
Come, ye pilgrims white and shy,
⁠Peck the early wheaten seed.

Tender evening twilight searches
⁠Cottage windows, gabled byres,
And the leaves of slender birches
⁠Glimmer soft as wedding fires.