  JAR in arm, they bade him rove Thro’ the alder’s long alcove, Where the hid spring musically Gushes to the ample valley. (There ’s a bird on the under bough Fluting evermore and now: “Keep—young!” but who knows how?) Down the woodland corridor, Odors deepened more and more; Blossomed dogwood, in the briers, Struck her faint delicious fires; Miles of April passed between Crevices of closing green, And the moth, the violet-lover, By the wellside saw him hover. Ah, the slippery sylvan dark! Never after shall he mark Noisy ploughmen drinking, drinking, On his drownÈd cheek down-sinking; Quit of serving is that wild, Absent, and bewitchÈd child, Unto action, age, and danger, Thrice a thousand years a stranger. Fathoms low, the naiads sing In a birthday welcoming; Water-white their breasts, and o’er him, Water-gray, their eyes adore him. (There ’s a bird on the under bough Fluting evermore and now: “Keep—young!” but who knows how?) Divider
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