Low Hidden In Among The Forest Trees An Artist'S Tilted Easel, Ankle-Deep In Tousled Ferns And Mosses, And In These A Fluffy Water-Spaniel, Half Asleep Beside A Sketch-Book And A Fallen Hat - A Little Wicker Flask Tossed Into That. A Sense Of Utter Carelessness And Grace Of Pure Abandon In The Slumb'Rous Scene, - As If The June, All Hoydenish Of Face, Had Romped Herself To Sleep There On The Green, And Brink And Sagging Bridge And Sliding Stream Were Just Romantic Parcels Of Her Dream.