Chance, and half in Nature’s play—
And a little bird sings nigh it, I will never more missay.
Henceforth, I will be the fairy
Of this bower, not built by one;
I will go there, sad or merry,
With each morning’s benison;
And the bird shall be my harper in the dream-hall I have won.
So I said. But the next morning,
(—Child, look up into my face—
’Ware, O sceptic, of your scorning!