O Nature! holy, meek, and mild,
Thou dweller on the mountain wild; 
Thou haunter of the lonesome wood; 
Thou wanderer by the secret flood; 
Thou lover of the daisied sod, 
Where Spring's white foot hath lately trod 
Finder of flowers fresh-sprung and new. 
Where sunshine comes to seek the dew; 
Twiner of bowers for lovers meet; 
Smoother of sods for poets' feet; 
Thrice-sainted matron! in whose face, 
Who looks in love will light on grace; 
Far-worshipp'd goddess! one who gives 
Her love to him who wisely lives; — 
Oh! take my hand, and place me on 
The daisied footstool of thy throne; 
And pass before my darken'd sight 
Thy hand which lets in charmed light; 
And touch my soul, and let me see 
The ways of God, fair dame, in thee. 

Or lead me forth o'er dales and meads, 
Even as her child the mother leads; 
Where corn, yet milk in its green ears, 
The dew upon its shot-blade bears; 
Where blooming clover grows, and where 
She licks her scented foot, the hare; 
Where twin-nuts cluster thick, and springs 
The thistle with ten thousand stings; 
Untrodden flowers and unpruned trees, 
Gladden'd with songs of birds and bees; 
The ring where last the fairies danced — 
The place where dank Will latest glanced — 
The tower round which the magic shell 
Of minstrel threw its lasting spell — 
The stream that steals its way along, 
To glory consecrate by song: 
And while we saunter, let thy speech 
God's glory and his goodness preach. 

Or, when the sun sinks, and the bright 
Round moon sheds down her lust'rous light; 
When larks leave song, and men leave toiling; 
And hearths burn clear, and maids are smiling 
When hoary hinds, with rustic saws, 
Lay down to youth thy golden laws; 
And beauty is her wet cheek laying 
To her sweet child, and silent praying: 
With Thee in hallow'd mood I'll go, 
Through scenes of gladness or of woe:
Thy looks inspired, thy chasten'd speech, 
Me more than man hath taught, shall teach; 
And much that's gross, and more that's vain, 
As chaff from corn, shall leave my strain. 

I feel thy presence and thy power,
As feels the rain yon parched flower; 
It lifts its head, spreads forth its bloom,
Smiles to the sky, and sheds perfume. 
A child of woe, sprung from the clod, 
Through Thee seeks to ascend to God. 

The charcoal-burner has tales to tell.
He lives in the Forest,
Alone in the Forest;
He sits in the Forest,
Alone in the Forest.
And the sun comes slanting between the trees,
And rabbits come up, and they give him good-morning,
And rabbits come up and say, "Beautiful morning"….
And the moon swings clear of the tall black trees,
And owls fly over and wish him good-night,
Quietly over to wish him good-night….

And he sits and thinks of the things they know,
He and the Forest, alone together — 
The springs that come and the summers that go,
Autumn dew on bracken and heather,
The drip of the Forest beneath the snow….
All the things they have seen,
All the things they have heard:
An April sky swept clean and the song of a bird….
Oh, the charcoal-burner has tales to tell!
And he lives in the Forest and knows us well.