Iii

“I ween, I ween, The path is green ’Neath beechen boughs that let Soft glimpses of the sapphire sky Gleam downward like a wood-nymph’s eye: At night one far and lambent star Shines o’er it, like a watching Lar, ’Mid branching buds a tangled bud Among the acres of the wood, Where blooms the wet wild violet And only we have, trysting, met.”