Classic Poem

But neither to the moon go I
Or to the river gliding by,
But to the woods, therein to move
Among the quiet glades I love,
Desiring nought but aye to see
The beech, ash, oak, and chestnut tree. . . .
Till I a nymph meet who persuades
Me to the broadest of the glades,
Around whose smooth and sunken space
The far woods lie. For in this place,
Deserted but for a mid-grove
Of maiden trees, bower of the dove,
Pan plays, and should the sylvans chance,
Nymphs, fauns, and sylvans, join in dance.