I

When I go forth to greet the glad-faced Spring, Just at the time of opening apple-buds, When brooks are laughing, winds are whispering, On babbling hillsides or in warbling woods, There is an unseen presence that eludes:-- Perhaps a dryad, in whose tresses cling The loamy odours of old solitudes, Who, from her beechen doorway, calls, and leads My soul to follow; now with dimpling words Of leaves; and now with syllables of birds; While here and there--is it her limbs that swing? Or restless sunlight on the moss and weeds?