The Hills Hang Woods Around, Where Green, Below Dark, Breezy Boughs Of Beech-Trees, Mats The Moss, Crisp With The Brittle Hulls Of Last Year'S Nuts; The Water Hums One Bar There; And A Glow Of Gold Lies Steady Where The Trailers Toss Red, Bugled Blossoms And A Rock Abuts; In Spots The Wild-Phlox And Oxalis Grow Where Beech-Roots Bulge The Loam, Protrude Across The Grass-Grown Road And Roll It Into Ruts. And Where The Sumach Brakes Grow Dusk And Dense, Among The Rocks, Great Yellow Violets, Blue-Bells And Wind-Flowers Bloom; The Agaric In Dampness Crowds; A Fungus, Thick, Intense With Gold And Crimson And Wax-White, That Sets The May-Apples Along The Terraced Creek At Bold Defiance. Where The Old Rail-Fence Divides The Hollow, There The Bee-Bird Whets His Bill, And There The Elder Hedge Is Thick. No One Can Miss It; For Two Cat-Birds Nest, Calling All Morning, In The Trumpet-Vine; And There At Noon The Pewee Sits And Floats A Woodland Welcome; And His Very Best At Eve The Red-Bird Sings, As If To Sign The Record Of Its Loveliness With Notes. At Night The Moon Stoops Over It To Rest, And Unreluctant Stars. Where Waters Shine There Runs A Whisper As Of Wind-Swept Oats.