And trust our wiser eyes’ delight.
The Foot-path.
Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree,
And, listening fearfully, he heard once more
The low voice murmur “Rhoecus,” close at hand.
Rhoecus.
Roots, wood, bark, and leaves singly perfect may be,
But, clapt hodge-podge together, they don’t make a tree.
A Fable for Critics.
Since first I heard our North wind blow,