GHOST- LAND 



)T is wrought out of the tragedy 

 of transition. What so fair as 

 this wooded, swelling hill-top 

 in its first estate ? The good 

 greenwood so lush, so tall, 

 so full of magic, of mystery covered all the 

 face of it. Here oak held up its cloud-com- 

 pelling height ; here beech dripped rain of 

 sunshine through its fine, swaying leaves ; 

 winds sighed them asleep in the poplar's 

 rocking breast, or went, spent with sighing, 

 to the lowland from the walnut's lacy 

 boughs. 



Below, the river ran wide and dark. Half 

 way the long slope a little spring broke out, 

 tinkled down a fairy waterfall over lime- 

 stone ledges, betwixt cushions of thick moss. 

 Wood flowers the shyest, the rarest crept 

 up to laugh with the babbling runnel. 

 Goldy-locks wept there her sunlit showers; 

 lady-slipper too, finer than fairy foot e'er 

 trod, mats of white violet, purple larkspur 



