There is no forest of the hills, No valley of the solitude, Nor fern nor moss, that may elude Her searching step that stills: She dreams among the wild-rose brakes Of fountains that the ripple shakes, And, dreaming of herself, she fills The silence with 'Iothera.'
And every wind that haunts the ways Of leaf and bough, once having kissed Her virgin nudity, goes whist With wonder and amaze. There blows no breeze which hath not learned Her name's sweet melody, and yearned To kiss her mouth that laughs and says, 'Iothera, Iothera.'
No wild thing of the wood, no bird, Or brown or blue, or gold or gray, Beneath the sun's or moonlight's ray, That hath not loved and heard; They are her pupils; she can say No new thing but, within a day, They have its music, word for word, Harmonious as Iothera.
No man who lives and is not wise With love for common flowers and trees, Bee, bird, and beast, and brook, and breeze, And rocks and hills and skies,-- Search where he will,--shall ever see One flutter of her drapery, One glimpse of limbs, or hair, or eyes Of beautiful Iothera.
The lake she haunts gleams dreamily 'Twixt sleepy boughs of melody, Set 'mid the hills beside the sea, In tangled bush and brier; Where the ghostly sunsets write Wondrous things in golden light; And above the pine-crowned height, Clouds of twilight, rosy white, Build their towers of fire.
'Mid the rushes there that swing, Flowering flags where voices sing When low winds are murmuring, Murmuring to stars that glitter; Blossom-white, with purple locks, Underneath the stars' still flocks, In the dusky waves she rocks, Rocks, and all the landscape mocks With a song most sweet and bitter.
Soft it sounds, at first, as dreams Filled with tears that fall in streams; Then it soars, until it seems Beauty's very self hath spoken; And the woods grow silent quite, Stars wax faint and flowers turn white; And the nightingales that light Near, or hear her through the night, Die, their hearts with longing broken.
Dark, dim and sad o'er mournful lands, White-throated stars heaped in her hands, Like wildwood buds, the Twilight stands, The Twilight dreaming lingers; Listening where the Limnad sings Witcheries, whose beauty brings A great moon from hidden springs, Pale with amorous quiverings Feet of fire and silvery fingers.