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But let us pause: Now have we reached the very inmost heart Of the old wood.—How the green shadows close Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round, A luxury of gloom!—Scarce doth one ray, Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal O'er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades; Or if it doth, 'tis with a mellow'd hue Of glow-worm colour'd light. Here, in the days Of pagan visions, would have been a place For worship of the wood nymphs! Through these oaks A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown The quivering image of its Dorian shafts On the stream's bosom; or a sculptured form, Dryad, or fountain goddess of the gloom, Have bow'd its head o'er that dark crystal down,