And change with hurried hand has swept these scenes: The woods have fallen, across the meadow-lot The hunter's trail and trap-path is forgot, And fire has drunk the swamps of evergreens; Yet for a moment let my fancy plant These autumn hills again: the wild dove's haunt, The wild deer's walk. In golden umbrage shut, The Indian river runs, Quonecktacut! Here, but a lifetime back, where falls tonight Behind the curtained pane a sheltered light On buds of rose or vase of violet Aloft upon the marble mantel set, Here in the forest-heart, hung blackening The wolfbait on the bush beside the spring. |