The woods of Westermain

     I

     Enter these enchanted woods,
     You who dare. 
     Nothing harms beneath the leaves
     More than waves a swimmer cleaves. 
     Toss your heart up with the lark,
     Foot at peace with mouse and worm,
     Fair you fare. 
     Only at a dread of dark
     Quaver, and they quit their form: 
     Thousand eyeballs under hoods
     Have you by the hair. 
     Enter these enchanted woods,
     You who dare.

     II

     Here the snake across your path
     Stretches in his golden bath: 
     Mossy-footed squirrels leap
     Soft as winnowing plumes of Sleep: 
     Yaffles on a chuckle skim
     Low to laugh from branches dim: 
     Up the pine, where sits the star,
     Rattles deep the moth-winged jar. 
     Each has business of his own;
     But should you distrust a tone,
     Then beware. 
     Shudder all the haunted roods,
     All the eyeballs under hoods
     Shroud you in their glare. 
     Enter these enchanted woods,
     You who dare.

     III

     Open hither, open hence,
     Scarce a bramble weaves a fence,
     Where the strawberry runs red,
     With white star-flower overhead;
     Cumbered by dry twig and cone,
     Shredded husks of seedlings flown,
     Mine of mole and spotted flint: 
     Of dire wizardry no hint,
     Save mayhap the print that shows
     Hasty outward-tripping toes,
     Heels to terror on the mould. 
     These, the woods of Westermain,
     Are as others to behold,
     Rich of wreathing sun and rain;
     Foliage lustreful around
     Shadowed leagues of slumbering sound. 
     Wavy tree-tops, yellow whins,
     Shelter eager minikins,
     Myriads, free to peck and pipe: 
     Would you better? would you worse? 
     You with them may gather ripe
     Pleasures flowing not from purse. 
     Quick and far as Colour flies
     Taking the delighted eyes,
     You of any well that springs
     May unfold the heaven of things;
     Have it homely and within,
     And thereof its likeness win,
     Will you so in soul’s desire: 
     This do sages grant t’ the lyre. 
     This is being bird and more,
     More than glad musician this;
     Granaries you will have a store
     Past the world of woe and bliss;
     Sharing still its bliss and woe;
     Harnessed to its hungers, no. 
     On the throne Success usurps,
     You shall seat the joy you feel
     Where a race of water chirps,
     Twisting hues of flourished steel: 
     Or where light is caught in hoop
     Up a clearing’s leafy rise,
     Where the crossing deerherds troop
     Classic splendours, knightly dyes. 
     Or, where old-eyed oxen chew