Was crumbling fast. The forest life had drowned
In waves of lush young growth our pleasure-ground,
Whelmed every nymph’s retreat.
I thought: “The gods have wrought a cruel jest,
Blasting our wood and those who dwell therein,
Bidding the coverts break their wonted rest
To grow and grow and drown the dancing-green;
And so in dark, numb days, the winter through,
The charm was wrought, and still the ruin grew,
Unheard-of and unseen.