The Dryad. WHAT hath the ilex heard, What hath the laurel seen, That the pale edges of their leaves are stirred? O trees upon your circle of smooth green, To unuttered praise. Was it the wind that parted your light boughs, Or some fair virgin shape of human brows O for that morning of the simple world, Strange eyes that had no heed Of men, and bodies shy with the firm grace Of young fawns flying, yet of human kin, Whose hand might lead us, could we only spare Doubt and suspicious pride, a world to win, Where all that lives would speak with us, now dumb For fear of us. O may I yet win there! Wave, boughs, aside! to your fresh glooms I come. But all is lonely here! Yet lonelier is the glade Than the wood's entrance, and more dark appear Ah, yet the nymph's white feet have surely strayed Shines and trembles there White narcissus bloom! By lichened grey stones, where the glancing stream Their snowy frail flames on the ripple gleam Surely her feet a moment rested here! She paused, she listened, and then glided on Half-turned in lovely fear; And her young shoulders shone Like moonbeams that wet sands, foam-bordered, blanch, A sight to stay the beating of the breast! Alas, but mortal eyes may never know That beauty. Hark, what bird above his nest So rapturously sings? Ah, thou wilt tell, Thou perfect flower, whither her footsteps go, And all her thoughts, pure flower, for thou know's well. White sweetness, richest odours round thee cling. Thou art so white, because thou dost enclose Shadowed within thy radiance I divine Dim blue that clouds upon the columbine, And wallflower's glow as of old, fragrant wine, And pansy's midnight-purple of sole star! From thee, and wilder glories would assume, Ev'n the proud peony of drooping plume, Robed like a queen in Tyre, All to thy lost intensity aspire; Toward thee they yearn out of encroaching gloom; They are all faltering beams of thy most perfect fire! And she, that only haunts remote green ways, Is it an empty freedom she doth praise? The common sweet of passion, apt to fault? Oh no, her bosom's maiden hope is still Nor she be false to her own heart's rich beat. She not condemns glad love, but with the best Where is the joy we meant In our first love, the joy so swiftly spent? It glows for ever in her sacred breast, O pure abstaining Priestess of delight, With beckoning western gleam Or first rose fading from an early sky? Or noble boy's clear and victorious eyes Thou shinest with the charm and with the power Of all that wisdom loses to be wise. Pictures on Enamel. WHEN Astraled was lying, like to die Of love's green sickness, all his bed was strown For other flowers yet were barely none, And these he loved. And so it came to pass And thus he chanced upon his bed alone When the day broke. You might have deemed he was An image of hope slain by drear Oblivion. The chamber where he lay was hushed as sorrow, In silent expectation of the morrow, On her own chastity, until the sight Made her heart ache. But, as the morning broke, With her thick hair around her like a cloak, More beautiful than awe, came that fair woman in. Long while she stood before the dreaming boy, And when she bent o'er him, her breath did toy With his dank hair. Long while she stood and smiled |