'Tis a woodland enchanted! I am writing no fiction ;
And this fount, its sole daughter, To the woodland was granted To pour holy water And win benediction ; In summer-noon flushes, When all the wood hushes, Blue dragon-flies knitting To and fro in the sun, With sidelong jerk flitting Sink down on the rushes, And, motionless sitting, Hear it bubble and run, Hear its low inward singing, With level wings swinging, On green tasselled rushes, To dream in the sun.
'T is a woodland enchanted! The great August noonlight, Through myriad rifts slanted, Leaf and bole thickly sprinkles With flickering gold;
There, in warm August gloaming, With quick, silent brightenings, From meadow-lands roaming, The firefly twinkles
His fitful heat-lightnings ; There the magical moonlight With meek, saintly glory Steeps summit and wold ;
'T is a woodland enchanted! When the phebe scarce whistles Once an hour to his fellow, And, where red lilies flaunted, Balloons from the thistles Tell summer's disasters, The butterflies yellow, As caught in an eddy Of air's silent ocean, Sink, waver, and steady O'er goats'-beard and asters, Like souls of dead flowers, With aimless emotion Still lingering unready To leave their old bowers; And the fount is no dumber, But still gleams and flashes, And gurgles and plashes, To the measure of summer; The butterflies hear it, And spell-bound are holden, Still balancing near it O'er the goats'-beard so golden.
'T is a woodland enchanted! A vast silver willow, I know not how planted, (This wood is enchanted, And full of surprises,) Stands stemming a billow, A motionless billow Of ankle-deep mosses ;
There whippoorwills plain in the soli- Two great roots it crosses
But through noonlight and moonlight No dew-drop is stiller
The little fount tinkles Its silver saints'-bells, That no sprite ill-boding May make his abode in Those innocent dells.
In its lupin-leaf setting
Than this water moss-bounded;
But a tiny sand-pillar
From the bottom keeps jetting, And mermaid ne'er sounded
Through the wreaths of a shell,
In some cavern of ocean, A melody sweeter Than the delicate pulses, The soft, noiseless metre, The pause and the swell Of that musical motion: I recall it, not see it ; Could vision be clearer ? Half I'm fain to draw nearer, Half tempted to flee it; The sleeping Past wake not, Beware!
One forward step take not, Ah! break not
That quietude rare ! By my step unaffrighted A thrush hops before it, And o'er it
A birch hangs delighted,
Still the smooth mirror glances,
Still the amber sand dances,
One look, then away!
O magical glass!
Canst keep in thy bosom Shades of leaf and of blossom When summer days pass,
So that when thy wave hardens It shapes as it pleases, Unharmed by the breezes, Its fine hanging gardens? Hast those in thy keeping, And canst not uncover, Enchantedly sleeping, The old shade of thy lover It is there! I have found it! He wakes, the long sleeper! The pool is grown deeper, The sand dance is ending, The white floor sinks, blending With skies that below me
Dipping, dipping, dipping its tremu- Are deepening and bending,
And a child's face alone
That seems not to know me, With hair that fades golden In the heaven-glow round it, Looks up at my own;
Ah, glimpse through the portal That leads to the throne, That
opes the child's olden Regions Elysian! Ah, too holy vision For thy skirts to be holden By soiled hand of mortal! It wavers, it scatters, 'T is gone past recalling! A tear's sudden falling The magic cup shatters, Breaks the spell of the waters, And the sand cone once more, With a ceaseless renewing,
Its dance is pursuing
On the silvery floor,
O'er and o'er,
With a noiseless and ceaseless renewing.
And, looking with awe in the magical
I see through my tears, Half doubtful of seeing, The face unperverted, The warm golden being Of a child of five years;
And spite of the mists and the error,
And the days overcast,
Can feel that I walk undeserted,
But forever attended
By the glad heavens that bended O'er the innocent past; Toward fancy or truth
Doth the sweet vision win me? Dare I think that I cast In the fountain of youth The fleeting reflection Of some bygone perfection That still lingers in me?
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