ABOUT the sheltered garden ground
The trees stand strangely still.
The vale ne’er seemed so deep before,
Nor yet so high the hill.
An awful sense of quietness,
A fulness of repose,
Breathes from the dewy garden-lawns,
The silent garden rows.
As the hoof-beats of a troop of horse
Heard far across a plain,
A nearer knowledge of great thoughts
Thrills vaguely through my brain.
I lean my head upon my arm,
My heart’s too full to think;
Like the roar of seas, upon my heart
Doth the morning stillness sink.
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850- 1894)