  One well might deem, among these miles of woods, Such were the Forests of the Holy Grail,— Broceliand and Dean; where, clothed in mail, The Knights of Arthur rode, and all the broods Of legend laired.—And, where no sound intrudes Upon the ear, except the glimmering wail Of some far bird; or, in some flowery swale, A brook that murmurs to the solitudes, Might think he hears the laugh of Vivien Blent with the moan of Merlin, muttering bound By his own magic to one stony spot; And in the cloud, that looms above the glen,— In which the sun burns like the Table Round,— Might dream he sees the towers of Camelot. |
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