And while for them a cricket
His silver strings did smite,
From out a wild-grape thicket
Was thrust a hand of white.
And thro’ the leaves uplifted,
I saw, a moment’s space,
Where dogwood blossoms drifted—
A dryad’s laughing face.
And while for them a cricket
His silver strings did smite,
From out a wild-grape thicket
Was thrust a hand of white.
And thro’ the leaves uplifted,
I saw, a moment’s space,
Where dogwood blossoms drifted—
A dryad’s laughing face.