In woods where waters break upon The hush like some soft word; Where sun-shot shadows shake upon The moss, who has not heard-- No bird!-- The flute, as breezy as a fan, Of Pan?

Far in, where mosses lay for us Still carpets, cool and plush; Where bloom and branch and ray for us Sleep, waking with a rush-- The hush But sounds the satyr hoof a span Of Pan.

O woods,--whose thrushes sing to us, Whose brooks dance sparkling heels; Whose wild aromas cling to us,-- While here our wonder kneels, Who steals Upon us, brown as bark with tan, But Pan?

III. THE THORN TREE

The night is sad with silver and the day is glad with gold, And the woodland silence listens to a legend never old, Of the Lady of the Fountain, whom the faery people know, With her limbs of samite whiteness and her hair of golden glow, Whom the boyish South Wind seeks for and the girlish-stepping Rain; Whom the sleepy leaves still whisper men shall never see again: She whose Vivien charms were mistress of the magic Merlin knew, That could change the dew to glowworms and the glowworms into dew.

There's a thorn tree in the forest, and the faeries know the tree, With its branches gnarled and wrinkled as a face with sorcery; But the Maytime brings it cl.u.s.ters of a rainy fragrant white, Like the bloom-bright brows of beauty or a hand of lifted light.

And all day the silence whispers to the sun-ray of the morn How the bloom is lovely Vivien and how Merlin is the thorn: How she won the doting wizard with her naked loveliness Till he told her daemon secrets that must make his magic less.

How she charmed him and enchanted in the thorn-tree's thorns to lie Forever with his pa.s.sion that should never dim or die: And with wicked laughter looking on this thing which she had done, Like a visible aroma lingered sparkling in the sun: How she stooped to kiss the pathos of an elf-lock of his beard, In a mockery of parting and mock pity of his weird: But her magic had forgotten that "who bends to give a kiss Will but bring the curse upon them of the person whose it is": So the silence tells the secret.--And at night the faeries see How the tossing bloom is Vivien, who is struggling to be free, In the th.o.r.n.y arms of Merlin, who forever is the tree.

IV. THE HAMADRYAD

She stood among the longest ferns The valley held; and in her hand One blossom, like the light that burns Vermilion o'er a sunset land; And round her hair a twisted band Of pink-pierced mountain-laurel blooms: And darker than dark pools, that stand

Below the star-communing glooms, Her eyes beneath her hair's perfumes.

I saw the moonbeam sandals on Her flowerlike feet, that seemed too chaste To tread true gold: and, like the dawn On splendid peaks that lord a waste Of solitude lost G.o.ds have graced, Her face: she stood there, faultless-hipped, Bound as with cestused silver,--chased With acorn-cup and crown, and tipped With oak leaves,--whence her chiton slipped.

Limbs that the G.o.ds call loveliness!-- The grace and glory of all Greece Wrought in one marble shape were less Than her perfection!--'Mid the trees I saw her--and time seemed to cease For me.--And, lo! I lived my old Greek life again of cla.s.sic ease, Barbarian as the myths that rolled Me back into the Age of Gold.

PRELUDES

I

There is no rhyme that is half so sweet As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat; There is no metre that's half so fine As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine; And the loveliest lyric I ever heard Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird.-- If the wind and the brook and the bird would teach My heart their beautiful parts of speech, And the natural art that they say these with, My soul would sing of beauty and myth In a rhyme and metre that none before Have sung in their love, or dreamed in their lore, And the world would be richer one poet the more.

II

A thought to lift me up to those Sweet wildflowers of the pensive woods; The lofty, lowly att.i.tudes Of bluet and of bramble-rose: To lift me where my mind may reach The lessons which their beauties teach.

A dream, to lead my spirit on With sounds of faery shawms and flutes, And all mysterious attributes Of skies of dusk and skies of dawn: To lead me, like the wandering brooks, Past all the knowledge of the books.

A song, to make my heart a guest Of happiness whose soul is love; One with the life that knoweth of But song that turneth toil to rest: To make me cousin to the birds, Whose music needs not wisdom's words.

MAY

The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed, That spangle the woods and dance-- No gleam of gold that the twilights hold Is strong as their necromance: For, under the oaks where the woodpaths lead, The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed Are the May's own utterance.

The azure stars of the bluet bloom, That sprinkle the woodland's trance-- No blink of blue that a cloud lets through Is sweet as their countenance: For, over the knolls that the woods perfume, The azure stars of the bluet bloom Are the light of the May's own glance.

With her wondering words and her looks she comes, In a sunbeam of a gown; She needs but think and the blossoms wink, But look, and they shower down.

By orchard ways, where the wild bee hums, With her wondering words and her looks she comes Like a little maid to town.

WHAT LITTLE THINGS!

From "One Day and Another"

What little things are those That hold our happiness!

A smile, a glance, a rose Dropped from her hair or dress; A word, a look, a touch,-- These are so much, so much.

An air we can't forget; A sunset's gold that gleams; A spray of mignonette, Will fill the soul with dreams More than all history says, Or romance of old days.

For of the human heart, Not brain, is memory; These things it makes a part Of its own ent.i.ty; The joys, the pains whereof Are the very food of love.

IN THE SHADOW OF THE BEECHES

In the shadow of the beeches, Where the fragile wildflowers bloom; Where the pensive silence pleaches Green a roof of cool perfume, Have you felt an awe imperious As when, in a church, mysterious Windows paint with G.o.d the gloom?

In the shadow of the beeches, Where the rock-ledged waters flow; Where the sun's slant splendor bleaches Every wave to foaming snow, Have you felt a music solemn As when minster arch and column Echo organ worship low?

In the shadow of the beeches, Where the light and shade are blent; Where the forest bird beseeches, And the breeze is brimmed with scent,-- Is it joy or melancholy That o'erwhelms us partly, wholly, To our spirit's betterment?

In the shadow of the beeches Lay me where no eye perceives; Where,--like some great arm that reaches Gently as a love that grieves,-- One gnarled root may clasp me kindly, While the long years, working blindly, Slowly change my dust to leaves.

UNREQUITED

Pa.s.sion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes: One hand among the deep curls of her brow, I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs: She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.

So have I seen a clear October pool, Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sere Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool, Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.

Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet; Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer.

Sweetheart I called her.--When did she repeat Sweet to one hope, or heart to one despair!

So have I seen a wildflower's fragrant head Sung to and sung to by a longing bird; And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead, No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.

THE SOLITARY

Upon the mossed rock by the spring She sits, forgetful of her pail, Lost in remote remembering Of that which may no more avail.

Her thin, pale hair is dimly dressed Above a brow lined deep with care, The color of a leaf long pressed, A faded leaf that once was fair.