Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — The Terrestrial Paradise

Longing already to search in and round        &nbsp The heavenly forest, dense and living-green,        &nbsp Which tempered to the eyes the newborn day, Withouten more delay I left the bank,        &nbsp Crossing the level country slowly, slowly,        &nbsp Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance. A gently-breathing air, that no mutation        &nbsp Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead,        &nbsp No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze, Whereat the tremulous branches readily        &nbsp Did all of them bow downward towards that side        &nbsp Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain; Yet not from their upright direction bent        &nbsp So that the little birds upon their tops        &nbsp Should cease the practice of their tuneful art; But with full-throated joy, the hours of prime        &nbsp Singing received they in the midst of foliage        &nbsp That made monotonous burden to their rhymes, Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells,        &nbsp Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi,        &nbsp When Aeolus unlooses the Sirocco. Already my slow steps had led me on        &nbsp Into the ancient wood so far, that I        &nbsp Could see no more the place where I had entered. And lo! my further course cut off a river,        &nbsp Which, tow'rds the left hand, with its little waves,        &nbsp Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang. All waters that on earth most limpid are,        &nbsp Would seem to have within themselves some mixture,        &nbsp Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal, Although it moves on with a brown, brown current,        &nbsp Under the shade perpetual, that never        &nbsp Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.