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How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocksThe wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!An old place, full of many a lovely brood,Tall trees, green arbours, and ground flowers in flocks;And Wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,Like to a bonny Lass, who plays her pranksAt Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocksThe crowd beneath her. Verily I think,Such place to me is sometimes like a dreamOr map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link,Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleamOf all things, that at last in fear I shrink,And leap at once from the delicious stream.
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