I

Hills rolled in woods, that lair the lynx and fox; Harsh fields, that lean before the woods' advance As wild-men fly from hunters, tossing locks Through which their eyes of yellow fire glance; Great blurs of briers and lugubrious rocks,-- A bristling blackness,--with a pool beneath, Whereo'er the wisps, like something evil, dance; And then a house like the wrecked face of death.