  I have seen her limpid eyes, Large with gradual laughter, rise In the wild-rose nettles; Slowly, like twin flowers, unfold, Smiling,—when the wind, behold! Whisked them into petals. I have seen her hardy cheek, Like a molten coral, leak Through the leaves around it Of thick Chickasaws; but so, When I made more certain, lo! A red plum I found it. I have found her racy lips, And her roguish finger-tips, But a haw or berry; Glimmers of her there and here, Just, forsooth, enough to cheer, And to make me merry. Often from the ferny rocks Dazzling rimples of her locks At me she hath shaken; And I've followed—but in vain!— They had trickled into rain, Sunlit, on the braken. Once her full limbs flashed on me, Naked, where a royal tree Checkered mossy places With soft sunlight and dim shade,— Such a haunt as myths have made For the Satyr races. There, it seemed, hid amorous Pan; For a sudden pleading ran Through the thicket, wooing Me to search and, suddenly, From the swaying elder-tree, Flew a wild-dove, cooing. |
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