III

We paused amid the pines that stood

The giants of the waste,

Tortured by storms to shapes as rude

As serpents interlaced;

And, soothed by every azure breath,

That under Heaven is blown,

To harmonies and hues beneath,

As tender as its own,

Now all the tree-tops lay asleep,

Like green waves on the sea,

As still as in the silent deep

The ocean woods may be.