SERE WISDOM
I had remembrance of a summer morn,
When all the glistening field was softly stirred
And like a child's in happy sleep I heard
The low and healthful breathing of the corn.
Late when the sumach's red was dulled and worn,
And fainter grew the trite and troublous word
Of tristful cricket, that replaced the bird,
I sought the slope, and found a waste forlorn.
Against that cold clear west, whence winter peers,
All spectral stood the bleached stalks thin-leaved,
Dry as papyrus kept a thousand years,
And hissing whispered to the wind that grieved,
It was a dream—we have no goodly ears—
There was no summer-time—deceived! deceived!
ISOLATION
White fog around, soft snow beneath the tread,
All sunless, windless, tranced, the morning lay;
All noiseless, trackless, new, the well-known way.
The silence weighed upon the sense; in dread,
"Alone, I am alone," I shuddering said,
"And wander in a region where no ray
Has ever shone, and as on earth's first day
Or last, my kind are not yet born or dead."
Yet not afar, meanwhile, there faltered feet
Like mine, through that wide mystery of the snow,
Nor could the old accustomed paths divine;
And even as mine, unheard spake voices low,
And hearts were near, that as my own heart beat,
Warm hands, and faces fashioned like to mine.
THE LOST DRYAD
(TO EDITH M. THOMAS)
Into what beech or silvern birch, O friend
Suspected ever of a dryad strain,
Hast crept at last, delighting to regain
Thy sylvan house? Now whither shall I wend,
Or by what wingèd post my greeting send,
Bird, butterfly, or bee? Shall three moons wane,
And yet not found?—Ah, surely it was pain
Of old, for mortal youth his heart to lend
To any hamadryad! In his hour
Of simple trust, wild impulse him bereaves:
She flees, she seeks her strait enmossèd bower
And while he, searching, softly calls, and grieves,
Oblivious, high above she laughs in leaves,
Or patters tripping talk to the quick shower.