Before the hill’s high altar bowed

The trees are Druids, weird and white,

Facing the vision of the light

With ancient lips to silence vowed.

No certain sound the woods aver,

Nor motion save of formless wings—

Filled with faint twilight flutterings,

With thronging gloom, and shadow-stir.

And hidden in a hollow dell,

Lie all the winds that magic trees

Have lulled with crystal wizardries,

And bound about with Merlin-spell.