Enchantment, by Madison Cawein

  The deep seclusion of this forest path,—
  O'er which the green boughs weave a canopy;
  Along which bluet and anemone
  Spread dim a carpet; where the Twilight hath
  Her cool abode; and, sweet as aftermath,
  Wood-fragrance roams,—has so enchanted me,
  That yonder blossoming bramble seems to be
  A Sylvan resting, rosy from her bath:
  Has so enspelled me with tradition's dreams,
  That every foam-white stream that, twinkling, flows,
  And every bird that flutters wings of tan,
  Or warbles hidden, to my fancy seems
  A Naiad dancing to a Faun who blows
  Wild woodland music on the pipes of Pan.