One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.
At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by,
And brings—you know not why—
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate
Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start,
If from a beech’s heart
A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say:
“Behold me! I am May!”