In The Woods As I Did Walk, Dappled With The Moon'S Beam, I Did With A Stranger Talk, And His Name Was Dream. Spurred His Heel, Dark His Cloak, Shady-Wide His Bonnet'S Brim; His Horse Beneath A Silvery Oak Grazed As I Talked With Him. Softly His Breast-Brooch Burned And Shone; Hill And Deep Were In His Eyes; One Of His Hands Held Mine, And One The Fruit That Makes Men Wise. Wondrously Strange Was Earth To See, Flowers White As Milk Did Gleam; Spread To Heaven The Assyrian Tree, Over My Head With Dream. Dews Were Still Betwixt Us Twain; Stars A Trembling Beauty Shed; Yet - Not A Whisper Comes Again Of The Words He Said.