by John Vance Cheney

John Vance Cheney

Mute the ferny woodland ways,

Hushed the merry meadow-lays;

Stillness all and heavy haze

Of the charmèd August days.

In the hollow, on the steep,

Dwells a silence long and deep;

Not the smallest whisper, now,

Of the secrets of the bough;

In his glory hid, alone,

Sits the hill god on his throne.

Last updated August 18, 2022