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Within the wood of Broceliande,
   Enwrapt in smoke and thinnest air,—
   Fine as the fume that quivers where
The sun-motes dance on the molten sand,—
Slept Merlin fast in Nimuë's hand.
   But Merlin's dream she never knew:
   There time drew back, while the white-owl flew
Unheard in the leaves of Broceliande,—
   Could we, though late in time, come there!

The children still bid Barenton
   To laugh,—still look for Merlin's stair,
   Where he stept down thro' the water there:
They call him back; but he sails far on
In his ship of glass to Avalon:
   There, not a cry of earth comes through;
   But every tear is a drop of dew,
Clear as the water of Barenton:
                                                       Oh Barenton,
   Could we but sail with Merlin there!

Your leaves are green, Broceliande:
   And Barenton, your well is clear
   For all to drink; and for all that dare,
Another world lies below your sand,—
Another sea and another strand,—
   Another sky; a White Isle too,
   Where is no death, and dreams come true,
Past Barenton and Broceliande,—
   Could we but dream with Merlin there!