The castle-covert and the mountain-close,
Slow in appearing,—if beneath it rose
Cravings, aversions,—did our green precinct
Take pride in me, at unawares distinct
With this or that endowment,—how, repressed
At once, such jetting power shrank to the rest!
Was I to have a chance touch spoil me, leave
My spirit thence unfitted to receive
The consummating spell?—that spell so near
Moreover! 'Waits he not the waking year?