Henry Alford

Ampton, Suffolk

  There is a wood, not far from where I pass
  My unrecorded hours in pleasant toil;--
  Each tangle of the spreading boughs I know
  And where each bird doth nestle; every poc
  That makes a mirror for the quivering leaves;
  The days are past when I could wander on
  And lose myself, expecting at each turn
  New pillared avenues of stately trees,
  And glimpses of far waters. Even thus
  With all the joy and beauty of this Earth
  Become familiar things; wonder shall yield
  To cold arrangement; and the voices deep
  Of the great Kings of Song shall cease to stir
  Mine inner fount of tears. The power of God
  Shall not be thereby shortened in my soul,
  But in my weakness rather perfect made,
  In the sure progress of untroubled Love
  That heals the fevered heart; as in the morn
  Upon the fading of the partial stars
  Wins the calm Daylight, over all diffused.