In The Forest

One well might deem, among these miles of woods, Such were the Forests of the Holy Grail,-- Brocéliand and Dean: where, clothed in mail, The Knights of Arthur rode, and all the broods Of legend laired.--And, where no sound intrudes Upon the ear, except the glimmering wail Of some far bird; or, in some flowery swale, A brook that murmurs to the solitudes, Might think he hears the laugh of Vivien Blent with the moan of Merlin, muttering bound By his own magic to one stony spot: And, in the cloud that looms above the glen,-- In which the sun burns like the Table Round,-- Might dream he sees the towers of Camelot.