Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/254

 No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh
 * To any pasture-plot;

But cluster'd near the chattering brook,
 * Lone hollies mark'd the spot.

Those hollies of themselves a shape
 * As of an arbor took,

A close, round arbor; and it stands
 * Not three strides from a brook.

Within this arbor, which was still
 * With scarlet berries hung,

Were these three friends, one Sunday morn,
 * Just as the first bell rung.

'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet
 * To hear the Sabbath-bell,

'Tis sweet to hear them both at once,
 * Deep in a woody dell.

His limbs along the moss, his head
 * Upon a mossy heap,

With shut-up senses, Edward lay: That brook e'en on a working day
 * Might chatter one to sleep.