The Oak-Wood

Beneath the holy oaks I wandered
Through twilight aisles where, soft and mild,
I heard a brook, which there meandered,
Keep lisping like a praying child.
With tremors sweet my heart did flutter;
The forest rustled weird and low,
As if it fain would something utter
Which yet I had no right to know;
As if it were about revealing
The secret of God’s thought and will,
When suddenly, His nearness feeling,
It seemed affrightened—and grew still.