Where among the beech -spaces or where the tall 

 the Forest elms sway in the east wind, is, like the sea, 

 Murmurs, exquisitely desirable, exquisitely unfamiliar, 

 inhuman, of another world. Then follow 

 the days when the violets creep through the 

 mosses at the base of great oaks, when the 

 dust of snowbloom on the blackthorn gives 

 way to the trailing dog-rose, when myriads 

 of bees among the chestnut-blossoms fill the 

 air with a continuous drowsy unrest, when 

 the cushat calls from the heart of the fir, 

 when beyond the green billowy roof of elm 

 and hornbeam, of oak and beach, of sycamore 

 and lime and tardy ash, the mysterious bells 

 of the South fall through leagues of warm air, 

 as the unseen cuckoo sails on the long tides 

 of the wind. Then, in truth, is there magic 

 in the woods. The forest is alive in its divine 

 youth. Every bough is a vast plume of joy : 

 on every branch a sunray falls, or a thrush 

 sways in song, or the gauzy ephemeridse dance 

 in rising and falling aerial cones. The wind 

 moves with the feet of a fawn, with the wings 

 of a dove, with the passing breath of the white 

 owl at dusk. There is not a spot where is 

 neither fragrance nor beauty nor life. From 

 the tiniest arch of grass and twig the shrew- 

 mouse will peep : above the shallowest rain- 

 pool the dragon-fly will hang in miraculous 



