Banks green and smooth, with stems beset,
And such a shade o'erhead
As lapped a richer violet
Upon a mossier bed;
Retired, yet free to eve and morn,
Such haunts the ranging deer
Would mark, and lead her trotting fawn
To couch in sunshine here.

How wildly leaned those antic trees!
Like Bacchanals they flung
Their arms,—upon their ecstacies
As upon wings they hung!
Yet here no riotous thoughts intrude;
Even in these postures free
Is seen the staid and stately mood
Of Nature's liberty.

What pageantry is here to pass?
Those sheets of golden green,
Spread they for none across the grass,
Or for a Fairy Queen?
March on, proud Creatures, in your state,
While ivy sparkles bright,
And mossy stems illuminate
With a sedater light.