Iii

'Tis 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; There whippoorwills plain in the solitudes hoary With lone cries that wander Now hither, now yonder, Like souls doomed of old To a mild purgatory; But through noonlight and moonlight The little fount tinkles Its silver saints'-bells, That no sprite ill-boding May make his abode in Those innocent dells.