"Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas, Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade, Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide: There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and combs its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light." Every line of this extract is worthy of close study--not only for its intrinsic beauty, but for its evidence of the working of the immanent ideas, and the vivid sense of kinship with tree life. The two lines "Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade," are justly famous. But more significant are the three less known ones: "Casting the body's vest aside My soul into the boughs does glide: There like a bird it sits and sings." Did Wordsworth, or Tennyson, or Shelley, ever give token of a more vivid sense of kinship with the life of the tree? Is it not palpable that the same essential form of intuitive experience is struggling in each and all of these poets to find some fitting expression? For Marvell, as for Wordsworth, "The soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs" seemed to fluctuate with an interior life and to call for joyous sympathy.