After Ruysdael Poem by Silas Weir Mitchell

THOUGH briery ways, from underneath
The far-off sadness of the gold
That fades above the sun, the waves.
Swift to our very feet are rolled.

Above, beyond, to either side,
The sombre woods bend overhead;
And underneath, the wild brown waves
Leap joyously, with lightsome tread,

From rock to rock, and laugh and sing,
Like lonely maids in woods at play;
Till in the cold, still pool below,
A-sudden checked, they stand at bay,

Like girls who, in their mood of joy,
To this more solemn woodland glide,
And with some brief, sweet terror touched,
Stand wistful, trembling, tender-eyed.

What half-felt sense of something gone,
What sadness in the moveless woods;
What sorrow haunts yon amber sky,
That over all so darkly brood!