Ride to the Lady, and Other Poems — The Lost Dryad

(TO EDITH M.

THOMAS)

Into what beech or silvern birch, O friend Suspected ever of a dryad strain, Hast crept at last, delighting to regain Thy sylvan house?

Now whither shall I wend, Or by what wingèd post my greeting send, Bird, butterfly, or bee?

Shall three moons wane, And yet not found?

--Ah, surely it was pain Of old, for mortal youth his heart to lend To any hamadryad!

In his hour Of simple trust, wild impulse him bereaves: She flees, she seeks her strait enmossèd bower And while he, searching, softly calls, and grieves, Oblivious, high above she laughs in leaves, Or patters tripping talk to the quick shower.

A MEMORY

Though pent in stony streets, 'tis joy to know, 'Tis joy, although we breathe a fainter air, The spirit of those places far and fair That we have loved, abides; and fern-scents flow Out of the wood's heart still, and shadows grow Long on remembered roads as warm days wear;

And still the dark wild water, in its lair, The narrow chasm, stirs blindly to and fro.

Delight is in the sea-gull's dancing wings, And sunshine wakes to rose the ruddy hue Of rocks; and from her tall wind-slanted stem A soft bright plume the goldenrod outflings Along the breeze, above a sea whose blue Is like the light that kindles through a gem.

THE GIFTS OF THE OAK