Woodland Sketches

She plays - and I can see wild roses blooming
In gay profusion on an old stone wall;
Or hear the murmur of the wind's soft blowing,
And almost hear the lark at heaven's gate call.

Sometimes I think I see the gentle swaying
Of water lilies rising o'er the pond;
I see them now in sunlight, now in shadow,
As if a fairy waved her magic wand.

Or then again I see in softened outline
An old deserted house among the hills,
And hear the echo of the sweetest music,
Like the soft murmur of distant rills.