My throne with me. Come, cast away thy care!
Sit here and breathe with me this wildwood air,
Musk with the wood's decay that fills each way;
As if some shrub, while dreaming of the May,
In longing languor weakly tried to wake
Its perished blossoms and could only make
Ghosts of such dead aromas as it knew,
And shape a spectre of invisible dew
To haunt these sounding miles of solitude."
"Still, thou art troubled, Morgane! and the mood,