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Poem	In a lone valley fair and far, Where many sweet beguilements are, I know a spot to lag and dream Through damask morns and noons agleam; For feet fall lightly on the fern And twilight is a wondrous thing, When the winds blow from some far bourne Beyond the hill rims westering; There echoes ring as if a throng Of fairies hid from mortal eyes Sent laughter back in spirit guise And song as the pure soul of song; Oh, 'tis a spot to love right well, This lonely, witching Echo Dell! Even the winds an echo know, Elusive, faint, such as might blow From wandering elf-land bugles far, Beneath an occidental star; And I have thought the blue bells lent A subtle music to my ear, And that the pale wild roses bent To harken sounds I might not hear. The tasselled fir trees softly croon The fabled lore of elder days. And through the shimmering eastern haze Floats slowly up the mellow moon; Come, heart o' mine, for love must dwell In whispering, witching Echo Dell.
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