I sit among the hoary trees br With Aristotle on my knees br And turn with serious hand the pages, br Lost in the cobweb-hush of ages; br When suddenly with no more sound br Than any sunbeam on the ground, br The little hermit of the place br Is peering up into my face— br The slim gray hermit of the rocks, br With bright, inquisitive, quick eyes, br His life a round of harks and shocks, br A little ripple of surprise. br br Now lifted up, intense and still, br Sprung from the silence of the hill br He hangs upon the ledge a-glisten. br And his whole body seems to listen! br My pages give a little start, br And he is gone! to be a part br Of the old cedar's crumpled bark.