How still it is here in the woods. The trees <br />Stand motionless, as if they did not dare <br />To stir, lest it should break the spell. The air <br />Hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze. <br />Even this little brook, that runs at ease, <br />Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed, <br />Seems but to deepen with its curling thread <br />Of sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences. <br /> <br />Sometimes a hawk screams or a woodpecker <br />Startles the stillness from its fixed mood <br />With his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hear <br />The dreamy white-throat from some far-off tree <br />Pipe slowly on the listening solitude <br />His five pure notes succeeding pensively.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/solitude-137/
