The poem
Who hath not felt the influence that so calms The weary mind in summers sultry hours When wandering thickest woods beneath the arms Of ancient oaks and brushing nameless flowers That verge the little ride who hath not made A minutes waste of time and sat him down Upon a pleasant swell to gaze awhile On crowding ferns bluebells and hazel leaves And showers of lady smocks so called by toil When boys sprote gathering sit on stulps and weave Garlands while barkmen pill the fallen tree —Then mid the green variety to start Who hath (not) met that mood from turmoil free And felt a placid joy refreshed at heart