The Vision in the Wood.

The husht September afternoon was sweet

With rich and peaceful light. I could not hear

On either side the sound of moving feet

Although the hidden road was very near.

The laden wood had powdered sun in it,

Slipped through the leaves, a quiet messenger

To tell me of the golden world outside

Where fields of stubble stretched through counties wide.

And yet I did not move. My head reposed

Upon a tuft of dry and scented grass

And, with half-seeing eyes, through eyelids closed,

I watched the languid chain of shadows pass,

Light as the slowly moving shade imposed

By summer clouds upon a sea of glass,

And strove to banish or to make more clear

The elusive and persistent dream of her.

And then I saw her, very dim at first,

Peering for nuts amid the twisted boughs,

Thought her some warm-haired dryad, lately burst

Out of the chambers of her leafy house,

Seeking for nuts for food and for her thirst

Such water as the woodland stream allows,

After the greedy summer has drunk up

All but a drain within the mossy cup.

Then I, beholding her, was still a space

And marked each posture as she moved or stood,

Watching the sunlight on her hair and face.

Thus with calm folded hands and quiet blood

I gazed until her counterfeited grace

Faded and left me lonely in the wood,

Glad that the gods had given so much as this,

To see her, if I might not have her kiss.