They love to lie and rock upon its leaves,
And bask them in the moon-shine. Many a time
Hath the woodman shown his boy where the dark round
On the green-sward beneath its boughs, bewrays
Their nightly dance, and bade him spare the tree.
Fancy had cast a spell upon the place
And made it holy; and the villagers
Would say that never evil thing approached
Unpunished there. The strange and fearful pleasure
That fill'd me by that solitary spring,