Or Dryads of the ash and oak,

Who syllabled his name and spoke

With him of presences and powers

That glimpsed in sunbeams, gloomed in showers.

By every violet-hallowed brook,

Where every bramble-matted nook

Rippled and laughed with water sounds,

He walked like one on sainted grounds,

Fearing intrusion on the spell

That kept some fountain-spirit's well,