THE LOST DRYAD

By Helen Gray Cone

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.