At another, I lay half dreaming in the hot summer noon, with a book of old tales beside me, beneath a great beech; or, in autumn, grew sad because I trod on the leaves that had sheltered me, and received their last blessing in the sweet odours of decay; or, in a winter evening, frozen still, looked up, as I went home to a warm fireside, through the netted boughs and twigs to the cold, snowy moon, with her opal zone around her.

At last I had fallen asleep; for I know nothing more that passed till I found myself lying under a superb beech-tree, in the clear light of the morning, just before sunrise.
Around me was a girdle of fresh beech-leaves.

Alas! I brought nothing with me out of Fairy Land, but memories--memories.

The great boughs of the beech hung drooping around me.

At my head rose its smooth stem, with its great sweeps of curving surface that swelled like undeveloped limbs.
The leaves and branches above kept on the song which had sung me asleep; only now, to my mind, it sounded like a farewell and a speedwell.