SYLVIA OF THE WOODLAND
I
O you, who know our Mays that blow
The bluets by the ways;
The Indian-pink,—whose bloom you 'd think
Was blood for some wild bee to drink,—
How—can you say—in their wise way
Is it you 're like our Mays?—
In gleam and gloom and wild perfume
Of moods that run from shade to sun:—
While in you seems the light that dreams
In thoughts of other days.
II
Meseems some song, for which I long,
From you to me takes wing
Each time you speak; a bird, whose beak
Is in my heart; whose wildwood art
Makes every beat say “Sweet, sweet, sweet,”
And all its pulses sing.
And when I gaze upon your face,
I seem to look into a brook,
That laughs through buds and leafing woods,
Reflecting all the spring.
III
You spoke but now—and, lo! I vow,
From haunts of hart and hind
I seemed to hear Romance draw near,
White hand in hand with Song, and stand,
In some green aisle of wood, and smile,
Beguiling soul and mind:
You laugh—and, lo! I seem to go
In Mirth's young train; and bird-songs rain
Around, above; and Joy and Love
Come dancing down the wind.
