The rapture of the woodthrush; soft her mood

The love-mate, with such golden numbers woo'd.

He ceased; the fresh moss-odors filled the grove

With a strange sweetness, the dark hemlock boughs

Moved soft, as though they heard the brooklet rouse

To its spring soul, and whisper low of love.

[Pg 5]

The white-robed birches stood unbendingly

Like royal maids, in proud expectancy.

Athwart the ramage where the young leaves press

It came to me, ah, call it what you will

Vision or waking dream, I see it still!

Again a form born of the woodland stress

Grew to my gaze, and by some secret sign

Though shadow-hid, I knew the form was thine.

The glancing sunlight made thy ruddy hair

A crown of gold, but on thy spirit-face

There was no smile, only a tender grace

Of love half doubt. Upon thy hand a rare

Wild bird of Paradise perched fearlessly

 Prev. P 4/57 next