Here and there the oaks assumed Satyr aspects; shadows gloomed, Hiding, of a dryad look; And the naiad-frantic brook, Crying, fled the solitude, Filled with terror of the wood, Or some faun-thing that pursued.
In the dead leaves on the ground Crept a movement; rose a sound: Everywhere the silence ticked As with hands of things that picked At the loam, or in the dew,-- Elvish sounds that crept or flew,-- Beak-like, pushing surely through.
Down the forest, overhead, Stammering a dead leaf fled, Filled with elemental fear Of some dark destruction near-- One, whose glowworm eyes I saw Hag with flame the crooked haw, Which the moon clutched like a claw.
Gradually beneath the tree Grew a shape; a nudity: Lithe and slender; silent as Growth of tree or blade of grass; Brown and silken as the bloom Of the trillium in the gloom, Visible as strange perfume.
For an instant there it stood, Smiling on me in the wood: And I saw its hair was green As the leaf-sheath, gold of sheen: And its eyes an azure wet, From within which seemed to jet Sapphire lights and violet.
Swiftly by I saw it glide; And the dark was deified: Wild before it everywhere Gleamed the greenness of its hair; And around it danced a light, Soft, the sapphire of its sight, Making witchcraft of the night.
On the branch above, the bird Trilled to it a dreamy word: In its bud the wild bee droned Honeyed greeting, drowsy-toned: And the brook forgot the gloom, Hushed its heart, and, wrapped in bloom, Breathed a welcome of perfume.
To its beauty bush and tree Stretched sweet arms of ecstasy; And the soul within the rock Lichen-treasures did unlock As upon it fell its eye; And the earth, that felt it nigh, Into wildflowers seemed to sigh....
Was it dryad? was it faun? Wandered from the times long gone. Was it sylvan? was it fay?-- Dim survivor of the day When Religion peopled streams, Woods and rocks with shapes like gleams,-- That invaded then my dreams?
Was it shadow? was it shape? Or but fancy's wild escape?-- Of my own child's world the charm That assumed material form?-- Of my soul the mystery, That the spring revealed to me, There in long-lost Arcady?
Whether it be that we in letters trace The pure exactness of a wood bird's strain, And name it song; or with the brush attain The high perfection of a wildflower's face; Or mold in difficult marble all the grace We know as man; or from the wind and rain Catch elemental rapture of refrain And mark in music to due time and place: The aim of Art is Nature; to unfold Her truth and beauty to the souls of men In close suggestions; in whose forms is cast Nothing so new but 'tis long eons old; Nothing so old but 'tis as young as when The mind conceived it in the ages past.