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I will walk the sunny wood, Of the Faun

Deep and tranquil as my mood, in his

And watch how the honeyed sunlight is Meditation.

Hung in the great boughs of the trees,

And the pattern the branchwork weaves

Under the panoply of leaves,

And how high up two butterflies

Pass, vaulting, out into the skies.

Or, entering a silent glade,

Draw a sharp breath and stand dismayed

At beauty which doth straight present

Such a spasm of ravishment

Sight is confused, and doth confess

Her wreck in voiceless tenderness:

Seeing the flower-decked cherry-trees —

Unruffled ever by any breeze,

Unburned by bright dawn's fiery chill —

Standing celestially still....

Or lay me down‘ neath chestnut boughs,

And drowse and dream and dream and drowse,

Drunk with the greenness overhead,

Until a blossom of sharp red,

Shook from her high and scalding place,

Splash with chill scent my upturned face.