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No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh
To any pasture-plot;
But cluster'd near the chattering brook,
Lone hollies mark'd the spot.
Those hollies of themselves a shape
As of an arbor took,
A close, round arbor; and it stands
Not three strides from a brook.
Within this arbor, which was still
With scarlet berries hung,
Were these three friends, one Sunday morn,
Just as the first bell rung.
'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet
To hear the Sabbath-bell,
'Tis sweet to hear them both at once,
Deep in a woody dell.
His limbs along the moss, his head
Upon a mossy heap,
With shut-up senses, Edward lay:
That brook e'en on a working day
Might chatter one to sleep.
