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. Sometimes a hawk screams or a woodpecker Startles the stillness from its fixèd mood With his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hear The dreamy white-throat from some far-off tree Pipe slowly on the listening solitude His five pure notes succeeding pensively.

Archibald Lampman

Available in your local book shop, or buy online at: