XXIII.

Dim vistas, sprinkled o'er with sun-flecked green, Wound through the thickset trunks on every side, And, toward the west, in fancy might be seen A gothic window in its blazing pride, When the low sun, two arching elms between, Lit up the leaves beyond, which, autumn-dyed With lavish hues, would into splendor start, Shaming the labored panes of richest art.