I leave the beckoning roadway with its trees,
Whose dusky banks of layered foliage seem
Like to that dryad-haunted spot which flees
Before us, in some half-waking summer dream,
To walk where scarce the memory of a sleeping breeze
Disturbs the odorous calm of field and stream;
The country of enchantment this must be,
An earth by some magician held in fee.
His magic spell is over all the land;
The hot noon lies inert with heavy sleep
Beneath the wizard's softly waving wand;
His fragrant charms my soul in slumber steep
And all my tranced mind in mazy languor keep.
The sky-filled brook hath half forgot to know
Which web-spanned way its dreaming waters flow.