That grow within the heart.
In Days of Old
Of all the ages’ gain, the ages’ loss,
A wealth of wonders and so much away—
When now hears one the woodland elves at play,
Or angry dryads where tall tree-tops toss.
No more they lightly tread the dewy moss
As danced they through cool haunts in ecstasy;
But rank and lost the paths in lone decay
Where fairy footsteps once were wont to cross.