 | The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road |  |
THE WOOD SPIRIT.
The old trees stood around,
Making no sound,
Breathless, and watching something on the ground.
Making no sound,
Breathless, and watching something on the ground.
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As, tiptoe, I drew near,
A sense of fear
Grew in me of a wonder to appear.
A sense of fear
Grew in me of a wonder to appear.
The brook cried, “Have a care!”
A thrush, “Beware!”
And then I heard a wild foot dancing there.
A thrush, “Beware!”
And then I heard a wild foot dancing there.
Who could the dancer be?
What mystery
Held now the wood in such anxiety?
What mystery
Held now the wood in such anxiety?
I stopped a while and spied
On every side—
Who danced there?—one the old trees sought to hide?
On every side—
Who danced there?—one the old trees sought to hide?
Was it a Faun?—or, what?
There was a plot
To keep me back, to hold me from the spot.
There was a plot
To keep me back, to hold me from the spot.
Again I made advance—
And, there! a glance
Of one, a girl, dancing a wildflower dance.
And, there! a glance
Of one, a girl, dancing a wildflower dance.
But hardly had I seen
When, quick, between
My eyes and her a great bough thrust its screen.
When, quick, between
My eyes and her a great bough thrust its screen.
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And the deep wood gave out
A mighty shout,
And in my face, ere I could turn about,
A mighty shout,
And in my face, ere I could turn about,
A bramble struck me fair.—
I did not care,
But through the thorny thicket burst to stare—
I did not care,
But through the thorny thicket burst to stare—
On no one.—Just a tree
Confronted me,
And looked as innocent as it could be.
Confronted me,
And looked as innocent as it could be.
Only, in trunk and bough,
I felt, somehow,
At my confusion it was laughing now.
I felt, somehow,
At my confusion it was laughing now.
| The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road | |