Nothing to compare for pure beauty with a wood. 
  The green roofing overhead
  Makes me feel young again;
  It hangs there, a living tapestry,
  To the glory of God and our delight.... 
  Beyond many trees that lay in shade
  I often saw one in full light;
  A human eye would scarce believe
  How sweetly twilight, light and darkness
  Meet side by side in leafy trees. 
  Peering through the leaves with joy
  We notice, as we see the leaves
  Lighted from one side only,
  That we can almost see the sun
  Mixing gold with the tender green, etc.

and so on for another twenty lines.

Yet this rich Burgomaster of Hamburg, for all that he dealt chiefly in rhymed prose, had his moments of rare elevation of thought and mystical rapture about Nature; for instance, in the introduction to Ueber das Firmament: 

  As lately in the sapphire depths,
  Not bound by earth nor water, aim nor end,
  In the unplumbed aerial sea I gazed,
  And my absorbed glance, now here, now there,
  But ever deeper sank—­horror came over me,
  My eye grew dizzy and my soul aghast. 
  That infinite vast vault,
  True picture of Eternity,
  Since without birth or end
  From God alone it comes.... 
  It overwhelmed my soul. 
  The mighty dome of deep dark light,
  Bright darkness without birth or bound,
  Swallowed the very world—­burying thought. 
  My being dwindled to an atom, to a nought;
  I lost myself,
  So suddenly it beat me down,
  And threatened with despair. 
  But in that salutary nothingness, that blessed loss,
  All present God! in Thee—­I found myself again.

While English poetry and its German imitations were shewing these signs of reaction from the artificiality of the time, and science and philosophy often lauded Nature to the skies, as, for instance, Shaftesbury[8] (1671-1713), a return to Nature became the principle of English garden-craft in the first half of the eighteenth century.[9] The line of progress here, as in taste generally, did not run straightforward, but fluctuated.  From the geometric gardens of Lenotre, England passed to the opposite extreme; in the full tide of periwig and hoop petticoat, minuets, beauty-patches and rouge, Addison and Pope were banishing everything that was not strictly natural from the garden.  Addison would even have everything grow wild in its own way, and Pope wrote: 

  To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
  To rear the column, or the arch to bend,
  To swell the terrace or to sink the grot,
  In all let Nature never be forgot.

William Kent made allowance for this idea; but, as a painter, and looking at his native scenery with a painter’s eye, he noted its characteristic features—­the gentle undulations, the freshness of the green, the wealth of trees—­and based his garden-craft on these.