For under woven branches of the pine,
The soft dry needles like a carpet spread,
And high above the arching boughs did shine
In frosty fret of silver, that the red
New dawn fired into gold-work overhead:
Within that vale where Paris oft had been
With fair OEnone, ere the hills he fled
To be the sinful lover of a Queen.
This book comes from：m.funovel.com。