tT NEVER -TO-BE RECALLED tT 



Down to floor and up to ceiling 

 Quick I turned my childish face, 

 With an innocent appealing 

 For the secret of the place, 



To the trees which surely knew it in partaking 

 of the grace. 



Where's no foot of human creature 

 How could reach a human hand? 

 And if this be work of Nature, 

 Why has Nature, turned so bland, 

 Breaking off from other wild work? It was 

 hard to understand. 



Was she weary of rough-doing, 

 Of the bramble and the thorn? 

 Did she pause in tender rueing 

 Her of all her sylvan scorn? 

 Or in mock of Art's deceiving was the sudden 

 mildness worn? 



Or could this same bower (I fancied) 

 Be the work of Dryad strong, 

 Who, surviving all that chanced 



[217] 



