IN dream I saw Diana pass, Diana as of old,
Across the green wood radiantly, attired in green and gold;
With spear alert, with eyes afire, as they had seen the sun,
And gave its glances back again, with brightness of their own.
No human maid is she, I thought, who there so lightly fares
Upon her sylvan empery, afar from our pale cares.
She passed, and left me to that thought, who felt the sadder then
That only once, and not again, she might be seen of men;
Though constantly, by lawn and wood, and hanging mountain-side,
My restless eye might dare to hunt the huntress in her pride.
Without her all was lonely grown; I had no liking left
For fern or foxglove bloom, of her bright grace bereft.
And in that taking, in a bed of softest fern I lay,
And found no joy of woodcraft left, the livelong summer day;
When lo! at eve, a silvery horn, a questing hound, a cry,
And swift, Diana came again, and sat her down thereby;
And then I saw those radiant eyes were full of perfect rest,
And found beneath the goddess there the woman’s softer breast.
Ernest Rhys.
WHEN SHE COMES HOME.
WHEN she comes home again! A thousand ways
I fashion, to myself, the tenderness
Of my glad welcome. I shall tremble—yes;
And touch her, as when first in the old days
I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise
Mine eyes, such was my faint heart’s sweet distress.
Then silence, and the perfume of her dress:
The room will sway a little, and a haze
Cloy eyesight—soul-sight, even—for a space:
And tears—yes; and the ache here in the throat,
To know that I so ill deserve the place
Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note
I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face
Again is hidden in the old embrace.
James Whitcomb Riley.
POPLAR LEAVES.
THE wind blows down the dusty street;
And through my soul that grieves
It brings a sudden odour sweet,
A smell of poplar leaves.
O leaves that herald in the spring,
O freshness young and pure,
Into my weary soul you bring
The vigour to endure.
The wood is near but out of sight,
Where all the poplars grow;
Straight up and tall and silver white,
They quiver in a row.
My love is out of sight, but near;
And through my soul that grieves
A sudden memory wafts her here
As fresh as poplar leaves.
A. Mary F. Robinson.