I sit among the hoary trees 
With Aristotle on my knees 
And turn with serious hand the pages, 
Lost in the cobweb-hush of ages; 
When suddenly with no more sound 
Than any sunbeam on the ground, 
The little hermit of the place 
Is peering up into my face— 
The slim gray hermit of the rocks, 
With bright, inquisitive, quick eyes, 
His life a round of harks and shocks, 
A little ripple of surprise. 

Now lifted up, intense and still, 
Sprung from the silence of the hill 
He hangs upon the ledge a-glisten. 
And his whole body seems to listen! 
My pages give a little start, 
And he is gone! to be a part 
Of the old cedar's crumpled bark. 
A mottled scar, a weather mark!

This poem is in the public domain.