Along the highway as we pace,
With languid steps and slow,
Enfolds us like a dream the grace
Of branches drooping low,
And glad beneath green bending boughs,
And o’er untrodden grass,
With wondering hearts and grateful vows
As worshippers we pass.
A temple of untold delight
Where mystic altars wait,
With hawthorns in their fillets white
Attendant at the gate.
And dare we in our hardihood
Pollute the vacant shrine,
Nor fear a presence in the wood
Majestic and divine?
In silent ranks on either hand,
Unbroken by a breeze,
Like priestly ministrants they stand,
A waiting train of trees.
Within their solemn brotherhood
Is nought of worldly care;
A sanctuary of the wood
They guard in secret there.
O shade of Dian, dimly grand,
That haunts the forest way,
The arrows in thy mighty hand
Launch not on us, we pray.
Not ours to press with revel rude
Upon thy privacy:
Within thy temple of the wood
True worshippers are we!
Scottish Women Poets 