Romance

I  

When I go forth to greet the glad-faced Spring,

Just at the time of opening apple-buds,

When brooks are laughing, winds are whispering,

On babbling hillsides or in warbling woods,

There is an unseen presence that eludes:—

Perhaps a Dryad, in whose tresses cling

The loamy odors of old solitudes,

Who, from her beechen doorway, calls; and leads

My soul to follow; now with dimpling words

Of leaves; and now with syllables of birds;

While here and there—is it her limbs that swing?

Or restless sunlight on the moss and weeds?

II  

Or, haply, 't is a Naiad now who slips,

Like some white lily, from her fountain's glass,

While from her dripping hair and breasts and hips,

The moisture rains cool music on the grass.

Her have I heard and followed, yet, alas!

 Prev. P 9/139 next