A virgin glen, awash with watercress,
Where timeless fountains pour from vestal snow
And well above, crowned o’er that wilderness,
A sun-slipped canopy shrouds all below,
Has long served as the bright, thrice-mystic lair
Of she who, with her eyes of reckless green
And silken lilies woven through her hair,
Commands my thoughts; commands me as a queen,
Imperious and vexing-fair to see,
If see her, mortals could. And by desire
Imperiled, quest I for that glen, that free
And mesmerizing realm of brook and briar,
My sylvan dream! if but a dream thou art,
Thou keener sleep within my waking heart.
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