There's a valley that lies in the bosom of hills

There's a valley that lies in the bosom of hills,
Where the wind ever calmly and silently blows,
And a stream, that collects from the mountain its rills,
Over pebbles and shells in a clear current flows,
Whose waters through meadows go stealing away,
Reflecting the willows that grow on their brim,
And shun, under evergreen thickets, the day,
Where the noon-hours, when brightest, like twilight are dim;
Where the brook sleeps as still, in its ebony well,
As the hush of a bee in the bell of a flower,
Or the life that is waiting to burst from its shell,
And charm with its melody meadow and bower;
Where the leaves, that are platted and woven above,
Shut out every glimpse of the sun and the sky,
And the flowers are as pale as a mourner in love,
And ever are wet like the lids of her eye;
Where sorrow for ever her vigil might keep,
And silence be still as the dead in their grave;
Where the heart that is rifled and broken might weep,
And mingle its tears with the motionless wave.
In the shade of a valley so lonely and still,
I could live in a quiet and fanciful dream;
Not a wish of my heart would go over the hill,
But life glide away like the flow of the stream.
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