In The Forest

One well might deem, among these miles of woods,
  Such were the Forests of the Holy Grail,--
  Broceliand and Dean; where, clothed in mail,
  The Knights of Arthur rode, and all the broods
  Of legend laired.--And, where no sound intrudes
  Upon the ear, except the glimmering wail
  Of some far bird; or, in some flowery swale,
  A brook that murmurs to the solitudes,
  Might think he hears the laugh of Vivien
  Blent with the moan of Merlin, muttering bound
  By his own magic to one stony spot;
  And in the cloud, that looms above the glen,--
  In which the sun burns like the Table Round,--
  Might dream he sees the towers of Camelot.