Amid their dimness, and a fitful sound,
As of soft showers on water. Dark and deep
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still,
They seemed but pictured glooms; a hidden rill
Made music—such as haunts us in a dream—
Under the fern-tufts; and a tender gleam
Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed,
Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down."
Many years after, in the sonnet, To a distant Scene, she addresses, with a fond yearning, this well remembered haunt—
"Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing,