I. Under Rocks Whereon The Rose Like A Strip Of Morning Glows; Where The Azure-Throated Newt Drowses On The Twisted Root; And The Brown Bees, Humming Homeward, Stop To Suck The Honey-Dew; Fern And Leaf-Hid, Gleaming Gloamward, Drips The Wildwood Spring I Knew, Drips The Spring My Boyhood Knew. Ii. Myrrh And Music Everywhere Haunt Its Cascades; Like The Hair That A Naiad Tosses Cool, Swimming Strangely Beautiful, With White Fragrance For Her Bosom, For Her Mouth A Breath Of Song: Under Leaf And Branch And Blossom Flows The Woodland Spring Along, Sparkling, Singing Flows Along. Iii. Still The Wet Wan Mornings Touch Its Gray Rocks, Perhaps; And Such Slender Stars As Dusk May Have Pierce The Rose That Roofs Its Wave; Still The Thrush May Call At Noontide And The Whippoorwill At Night; Nevermore, By Sun Or Moontide, Shall I See It Gliding White, Falling, Flowing, Wild And White.