Tossed against a rocky ledge,

Banks of primrose, boughs of May

Fringed the forest’s sombre edge.

Here the wild domain began

Touched not by the hand of man,

Tangled, orderless, o’er-grown,

Tended not nor reaped nor sown,

Yet majestically decked

In the robes of its neglect,

With the forms that beauty shaped

Out of its confusion draped:—

Beauty that our youthful eyes

Sought not, but in other guise

Reached us, and before our feet

With a reassurance sweet,

When the path was dark and drear

Into wonder changed our fear.{25}

{25}

Soon the spirit of the woods

Made us creatures of its own,

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