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. 

Mrs. Thomas Willow seems very glum.
Her life, perhaps, is very lonely and hum-drum,
Digging up potatoes, cleaning out the weeds,
Doing the little for a lone woman's needs.
Who was her husband? How long ago?
What does she wonder? What does she know?
Why does she listen over the wall,
Morning and noon-time and twilight and all,
As though unforgotten were some footfall?

"Good morning, Mrs. Willow." "Good morning, sir,"
Is all the conversation I can get from her.
And her path-stones are white as lilies of the wood,
And she washes this and that till she must be very good.
She sends no letters, and no one calls,
And she doesn't go whispering beyond her walls;
Nothing in her garden is secret, I think—
That's all sun-bright with foxglove and pink,
And she doesn't hover round old cupboards and shelves

As old people do who have buried themselves;
She has no late lamps, and she digs all day
And polishes and plants in a common way,
But glum she is, and she listens now and then
For a footfall, a footfall, a footfall again,
And whether it's hope, or whether it's dread,
Or a poor old fancy in her head,
I shall never be told; it will never be said.