V. The Mill-Race

“Only a mill-race,” said they, and went by, But we were wiser, spoke no word, and stayed; It was a place to make the heart afraid With so much beauty, lest the after sigh, When one had drunk its sweetness utterly, Should leave the spirit faint; a living shade From beechen branches o’er the water played To unweave that spell through which the conquering sky Subdues the sweet will of each summer stream; So this ran freshlier through the swaying weeds. I gazed until the whole was as a dream, Nor should have waked or wondered had I seen Some smooth-limbed wood-nymph glance across the green, Or Naiad lift a head amongst the reeds.