This valley wood is pledged
To the set shape of things;
Here are no harpies fledged,
No rocs may clap their wings.
Here poised in quietude,
Calm elementals brood;
They fend away alarms
From this green wood.
Only, the lawns are soft,
Slow branches sway aloft,
Small pathways idly tend
Towards no fearful end.
--With apologies to Robert Graves, lines from "An English Wood"
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