  A wood obscure in this man’s haunt of love, And midmost in the wood where leaves fall sere, A pool unplumbed; no winds these waters move, Gathered as in a vase from year to year. And he has thought that he himself lies drowned, Wan-faced where the pale water glimmereth, And that the voiceless man who paces round The brink, nor sheds a tear now, is his wraith. |
|
