DOWN the nesh pathway into the wood,

into the pixie dell,

We had passed the turn where an elmtree stood

and a rathe-ripe harvest fell

On the withered fern and the phantom leaves

of yesterautumn's revel ;

Washed by the waves that the windflower breathes

across the glimmering level

Green sea that laves the forbidden shore

in the rune of the white flower-foam,

Was the heart of the dene—and the shimmering floor

decked for the dance of the gnome.