I

'Tis a woodland enchanted! By no sadder spirit Than blackbirds and thrushes, That whistle to cheer it All day in the bushes. This woodland is haunted: And in a small clearing, Beyond sight or hearing Of human annoyance, The little fount gushes, First smoothly, then dashes And gurgles and flashes, To the maples and ashes Confiding its joyance; Unconscious confiding, Then, silent and glossy, Slips winding and hiding Through alder-stems mossy, Through gossamer roots Fine as nerves, That tremble, as shoots Through their magnetized curves The allurement delicious Of the water's capricious Thrills, gushes, and swerves.