Page:Poems Barrett.djvu/228

      And if Chaucer had not travelled
      Through a forest by a well,
      He had never dreamt nor marvelled
      At those ladies fair and fell
Who lived smiling without loving, in their island-citadel.

      Thus I thought of the old singers,
      And took courage from their song,
      Till my little struggling fingers
      Tore asunder gyve and thong
Of the lichens which entrapped me, and the barrier branches strong.

      On a day, such pastime keeping,
      With a fawn's heart debonair,
      Under-crawling, overleaping
      Thorns that prick and boughs that bear,
I stood suddenly astonied—I was gladdened unaware!

      From the place I stood in, floated
      Back the covert dim and close;
      And the open ground was suited
      Carpet-smooth with grass and moss,
And the blue-bell's purple presence signed it worthily across.

      Here a linden-tree stood, brightening
      All adown its silver rind;
      For as some trees draw the lightning
      So this tree, unto my mind,
Drew to earth the blessed sunshine, from the sky where it was shrined.

      Tall the linden-tree, and near it
      An old hawthorn also grew;
      And wood-ivy like a spirit
      Hovered dimly round the two,
Shaping thence that Bower of beauty, which I sing of thus to you.