Oh, praise me not the silent folk;
To me they only seem
Like leafless, bird-abandoned oak
And muffled, frozen stream.
I want the leaves to talk and tell
The joy that’s in the tree,
And water-nymphs to weave a spell
Of pixie melody.
Your silent folk may be sincere,
But still, when all is said,
We have to grant they’re rather drear,—
And maybe, too, they’re dead.
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