'Now it is turning into words again - faint but clear - Lest the awe should dwell - And turn your frolic to fret - You shall look on my power at the helping hour - But then you shall forget! Now the reeds take it up - forget, forget, they sigh, and it dies away in a rustle and a whisper. Then the voice returns - 'Lest limbs be reddened and rent - I spring the trap that is set - As I loose the snare you may glimpse me there - For surely you shall forget! Row nearer, Mole, nearer to the reeds! It is hard to catch, and grows each minute fainter. 'Helper and healer, I cheer - Small waifs in the woodland wet - Strays I find in it, wounds I bind in it - Bidding them all forget!