... part of a poem.

A single tree with sinuous trunk, boughs exquisitely wreathed, grew there; an ash which Winter for himself decked out with pride, and with outlandish grace: up from the ground, and almost to the top, the trunk and every master branch were green with clustering ivy, and the lightsome twigs and outer spray profusely tipped with seeds that hung in yellow tassels, while the air stirred them, not voiceless.

Often have I stood foot-bound uplooking at this lovely tree beneath a frosty moon.

The hemisphere of magic fiction, verse of mine perchance may never tread; but scarcely Spenser's self could have more tranquil visions in his youth, or could more bright appearances create of human forms with superhuman powers, than I beheld, loitering on calm clear nights alone, beneath this fairy work of earth.

—from Book Six of The Prelude by William Wordsworth. I love that word, "foot-bound."