This valley wood is pledged To the set shape of things, And reasonably hedged: Here are no harpies fledged, No rocs may clap their wings, Nor gryphons wave their stings. Here, poised in quietude, Calm elementals brood On the set shape of things: They fend away alarms From this green wood. Here nothing is that harms - No bulls with lungs of brass, No toothed or spiny grass, No tree whose clutching arms Drink blood when travellers pass, No mount of glass; No bardic tongues unfold Satires or charms. Only, the lawns are soft, The tree-stems, grave and old; Slow branches sway aloft, The evening air comes cold, The sunset scatters gold. Small grasses toss and bend, Small pathways idly tend Towards no fearful end.