And waited for a hamadryad to peep
Through yonder cleft and mock me for my sloth.
But, oh! the fern was soft, and I was loth
From out my bed to creep.
Slow, slow I drew the rotting bolt away.
My hoofs sank deep among the drifted leaves.
But, farther on, a lonely sunbeam lay
On fading snowdrops, and my granite eaves
Were overthatched with mosses green and fine;
And every bud upon the dangling vine