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
Round the thickets, when anon
They with silly thorn-pricked noses bleated back unto the sun.
But my childish heart beat stronger
Than those thickets dared to grow:
I could pierce them! I could longer