I lie at rest on the low moss pressed,

Whose loose leaves downward drip;

As light they move as a word of love

Or a finger to the lip.

’Neath the canopies of the sunbright trees

Pierced by an Autumn ray,

To rich red flakes the old log breaks

In exquisite decay.

While in the pines where no sun shines

Perpetual morning lies.

What bed more sweet could stay her feet,

Or hold her dreaming eyes?

No sound is there in the middle air

But sudden wings that soar,{8}

{8}

As a strange bird’s cry goes drifting by—

And then I hear once more

That sound of an axe till the great tree cracks,

Then a crash comes as if all

The winds that through its bright leaves blew

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