Beneath a forest dark and green
I hear the sounds of things unseen:
From chittered voice to furtive stir,
From everywhere a rustled fur.

The creatures of this place do guard -
For in each glassy eye there lies a shard
Of that ominous presence which abounds
In every substance that surrounds.

From twixt the boughs all bathed in fog,
From behind each fallen, rotting log
Comes forth the spirit that rules this place;
A spectre as yet without a face.

I feel the thought of Him pervade:
"What do you in my enchanted glade?
You defile this land with human shame,
Return to your world and there remain."

Then reality shifts as if by spells
And I sense the taint of city smells.