Iv

Or con the slender gold of this dim, still Unmoving minnow 'neath these twisted roots, Thrust o'er the smoky topaz of this rill?-- Or, in this sunlight, did those insect flutes, Sleepy with summer, drowsily forlorn, Remind thee of Tithonos and the Morn? Until thine eyes dropped dew, the dimpled stream Crinkling with crystal o'er the winking grail?-- Or didst perplex thee with some poet plan To drug this air with beauty to make dream,-- Presence unseen, still watching in yon vale!-- Me, wildwood-wandered from the haunts of man!