I

Not for you and me the path Winding through the shadowless Fields of morning's dewiness! Where the brook that hurries hath Laughter lighter than a boy's; Where recurrent odors poise, Romp-like, with irreverent tresses, In the sun; and leaves and boughs Build a music-haunted house For the winds to hang their dresses, Whisper-silken, rustling in. Ours a path that led unto Twilight regions gray with dew; Where moon-vapors gathered thin Over acres sisterless Of all healthy beauty; where Fungus growths made sad the air As a phantom-felt caress: Under darkness and strange stars, To the sorrow-silenced bars Of a dubious forestland, Where the wood-scents seemed to stand, And the sounds on either hand, Clad like Sleep's own servitors In the shadowy livery Of the ancient House of Dreams, Which before us,--fitfully, With white intermittent gleams Of its pale-lamped windows,--shone, Echoing with the dim unknown.