The least mischief worth a nay—
Up and down—as dull as grammar on an eve of holiday!
But the wood, all close and clenching
Bough in bough and root in root,—
No more sky (for over-branching)
At your head than at your foot,—
Oh, the wood drew me within it, by a glamour past dispute.
Few and broken paths showed through it,
Where the sheep had tried to run,—
Forced with snowy wool to strew it