Ii

'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 rashes, 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.