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All she remembered on this day of Fate, The road that hazarded not the solemn depths But turned away to flee to human homes, The wilderness with its mighty monotone, The morning like a lustrous seer above, The passion of the summits lost in heaven, The titan murmur of the endless woods. As if a wicket gate to joy were there Ringed in with voiceless hint and magic sign, Upon the margin of an unknown world Reclined the curve of a sun-held recess; Groves with strange flowers like eyes of gazing nymphs Peered from their secrecy into open space, Boughs whispering to a constancy of light Sheltered a dim and screened felicity, And slowly a supine inconstant breeze Ran like a fleeting sigh of happiness Over slumbrous grasses pranked with green and gold. Hidden in the forest's bosom of loneliness Amid the leaves the inmate voices called, Sweet like desires enamoured and unseen, Cry answering to low insistent cry. Behind slept emerald dumb remotenesses, Haunt of a Nature passionate, veiled, denied To all but her own vision lost and wild. Earth in this beautiful refuge free from cares Murmured to the soul a song of strength and peace. Only one sign was there of a human tread: A single path, shot thin and arrowlike Into this bosom of vast and secret life, Pierced its enormous dream of solitude. 
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