A Path, Old Tree, Goes By Thee Crooking On, And Through This Little Gate That Claps And Bangs Against Thy Rifted Trunk, What Steps Hath Gone? Though But A Lonely Way, Yet Mystery Hangs Oer Crowds Of Pastoral Scenes Recordless Here. The Boy Might Climb The Nest In Thy Young Boughs That's Slept Half An Eternity; In Fear The Herdsman May Have Left His Startled Cows For Shelter When Heaven'S Thunder Voice Was Near; Here Too The Woodman On His Wallet Laid For Pillow May Have Slept An Hour Away; And Poet Pastoral, Lover Of The Shade, Here Sat And Mused Half Some Long Summer Day While Some Old Shepherd Listened To The Lay.