Vii

'Tis a woodland enchanted! If you ask me, Where is it? I can but make answer, ''Tis past my disclosing;' Not to choice is it granted By sure paths to visit The still pool enclosing Its blithe little dancer; But in some day, the rarest Of many Septembers, When the pulses of air rest, And all things lie dreaming In drowsy haze steaming From the wood's glowing embers, Then, sometimes, unheeding, And asking not whither, By a sweet inward leading My feet are drawn thither, And, looking with awe in the magical mirror, I see through my tears, Half doubtful of seeing, The face unperverted, The warm golden being Of a child of five years; And spite of the mists and the error. And the days overcast, Can feel that I walk undeserted, But forever attended By the glad heavens that bended O'er the innocent past; Toward fancy or truth Doth the sweet vision win me? Dare I think that I cast In the fountain of youth The fleeting reflection Of some bygone perfection That still lingers in me?