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Broceliande! in the perilous beauty of silence and
      menacing shade,
Thou art set on the shores of the sea down the haze of
      horizons untravelled, unscanned.
Untroubled, untouched with the woes of this world are
      the moon-marshalled hosts that invade

Only at dusk, when lavender clouds in the orient twilight
Vanishing where all the blue afternoon they have drifted
      in solemn parade,
Sometimes a whisper comes down on the wind from the
      valleys of Fairyland—

Sometimes an echo most mournful and faint like the
      horn of a huntsman strayed,
Faint and forlorn, half drowned in the murmur of foliage
      fitfully fanned,
Breathes in a burden of nameless regret till I startle,
      disturbed and affrayed:
            Broceliande. . . .