Paulum Sylvae

Thou bid'st me take the axe, and rudely smite
Yon belt of trees that bounds thy searching eyes.
Thou hast a stranger's heart, an alien's sight,
For all those dear home objects which I prize;
I love the rooks, that drop the wearied wing
At eve so fondly on their native grove,
And to mine ear and eyesight daily bring
So many sounds and motions that I love;
And in that path beneath, ere day is done,
How oft I pace beside the setting sun;
How oft I watch the nightly orb arise
On the dark trees, my garden guest to be.
I will not throw her back on open skies,
No axe shall part my woodland moon and me.