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ANNIVERSARY POEM.
197
And rain-weighed rose-vines; scarcely might we tell
Whether we had not lost our souls in dreams
Of that past night, and were but sprites of streams,
Oreads of hills, or elfs of knoll and dell.
Whether we had not lost our souls in dreams
Of that past night, and were but sprites of streams,
Oreads of hills, or elfs of knoll and dell.
XXVIII.
Upon the grass-fringed lakelet, fountain-fed
With cooling rills, just drained from hill-side wells,
Where, to the tinkle of sweet water-bells,
Aërial jets were waltzing overhead,
By sirens lured, how daintily we rode!
Till, drawn too near their crystalline abode,
What showers the fickle creatures o'er us shed?
Upon the grass-fringed lakelet, fountain-fed
With cooling rills, just drained from hill-side wells,
Where, to the tinkle of sweet water-bells,
Aërial jets were waltzing overhead,
By sirens lured, how daintily we rode!
Till, drawn too near their crystalline abode,
What showers the fickle creatures o'er us shed?
XXIX.
We trod the dim cool windings of the trail
That through the forest led to secret nooks,
Where lightly laughed the ever-raptured brooks,
And the mitchella repens blossomed, pale
From love of shade and rich excess of dew;
Where pulsed the bubbling spring, and downward threw,
From tiny heights, its moss-entangled veil.
We trod the dim cool windings of the trail
That through the forest led to secret nooks,
Where lightly laughed the ever-raptured brooks,
And the mitchella repens blossomed, pale
From love of shade and rich excess of dew;
Where pulsed the bubbling spring, and downward threw,
From tiny heights, its moss-entangled veil.
