ENCHANTMENT

The deep seclusion of this forest path,—

O'er which the green boughs weave a canopy;

Along which bluet and anemone

Spread dim a carpet; where the Twilight hath

Her cool abode; and, sweet as aftermath,

Wood-fragrance roams,— has so enchanted me,

That yonder blossoming bramble seems to be

A Sylvan resting, rosy from her bath:

Has so enspelled me with tradition's dreams,

That every foam-white stream that, twinkling, flows,

And every bird that flutters wings of tan,

Or warbles hidden, to my fancy seems

A Naiad dancing to a Faun who blows

Wild woodland music on the pipes of Pan.