  I What deity for dozing Laziness Devised the lounging leafiness of this Secluded nook?—And how!—did I distress His musing ease that fled but now? or his Communion with some forest-sister, fair And shy as is the whippoorwill-flower there, Did I disturb?—Still is the wild moss warm And fragrant with late pressure,—as the palm Of some hot Hamadryad, who, a-nap, Props her hale cheek upon it, while her arm Is wildflower-buried; in her hair the balm Of a whole spring of blossoms and of sap.— II See, how the dented moss, that pads the hump Of these distorted roots, elastic springs From that god's late reclining! Lump by lump Its points, impressed, rise in resilient rings, As stars crowd, qualming through gray evening skies.— Invisible presence, still I feel thy eyes Regarding me, bringing dim dreams before My half-closed gaze, here where great, green-veined leaves Reach, waving at me, their innumerable hands, Stretched towards this water where the sycamore Stands burly guard; where every ripple weaves A ceaseless, wavy quivering as of bands. III Of elfin chivalry, that, helmed with gold, Invisible march, making a twinkling sound.— What brought thee here?—this wind, that steals the old Gray legends from the forests and around Whispers them now? Or, in those purple weeds The hermit brook so busy with his beads?— Lulling the silence with his prayers all day, Droning soft Aves on his rosary Of bubbles.—Or, that butterfly didst mark On yon hag-taper, towering by the way, A witch's yellow torch?—Or didst, like me, Watch, drifting by, these curled, brown bits of bark? IV Or con the slender gold of this dim, still Unmoving minnow 'neath these twisted roots, Thrust o'er the smoky topaz of this rill?— Or, in this sunlight, did those insect flutes, Sleepy with summer, drowsily forlorn, Remind thee of Tithonos and the Morn? Until thine eyes dropped dew, the dimpled stream Crinkling with crystal o'er the winking grail?— Or didst perplex thee with some poet plan To drug this air with beauty to make dream,— Presence unseen, still watching in yon vale!— Me, wildwood-wandered from the haunts of man! |
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