F. Schuyler Mathews

“ Breathes o’er the woods where the blue hills climb
Aloft from a belt of spruce and pine
That hides their feet in a dark green line.
On the edge of the wood where the white birch trees
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WHERE THE BLUE HILLS CLIMB
ALOFT FROM A BELT OF SPRUCE AND PINE
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Nod and bend in the passing breeze,
A hermit lives who never is seen
Nearer the meadow’s rolling green
Than the pasture bars beside the hill,
Where the road is lonely, dark, and still,
And scarcely anyone passes by
But the boy and cows, and squirrels shy. ”