Classic Poem

How well we loved, in Summer solitude
To stroll on lonely ridges far away,
Where beeches, with their boles of Quaker gray,
Murmured at times a sylvan interlude!
We heard each songster warble near her brood,
And from the lowland where the mowers lay
Came now and then faint fragrance from the hay,
That touched the heart to reminiscent mood.
We peered down wooded steeps, and saw the sun
Shining in front, tip all the grape-vines wild,
And edge with light the bowlders' lichened groups;
While, deep within the gorge, the tinkling run
Coiled through the hollows with its silvered loops
Down to the waiting River, thousand-isled.