That from this sordid smoke and dust I turn,
Turn where the dim Wood-world calls out to me
And where the forest-virgins I half see
With green mysterious fingers beckoning!
Where vine-wreathed woodland altars sunlit burn,
Or Dryads weave their mystic rounds and sing,
Sing high, sing low, with magic cadences
That once the wild oaks of Dodona heard;
And every wood-note bids me burst asunder
The bonds that hold me from the leaf-hid bird!