Is always looking up at him.
I know where an old tree leans across
From bank to bank, an ancient tree,
Quaintly cushioned with curious moss,
A bridge for the cool wood-nymphs and me:
Half seen they flit, while here I sit
By the magical water, watching it.
In its bosom swims the fair phantasm
Of a subterraneous azure chasm,
So soft and clear, you would say the stream