Ix

Down in the woods a sorcerer, Out of rank rain and death, distills,-- Through chill alembics of the air,-- Aromas that brood everywhere Among the whisper-haunted hills: The bitter myrrh of dead leaves fills Wet valleys (where the gaunt weeds bleach) With rainy scents of wood-decay;-- As if a spirit all the day Sat breathing softly 'neath the beech.

With other eyes I see her flit, The wood-witch of the wild perfumes, Among her elfin owls,--that sit, A drowsy white, in crescent-lit Dim glens of opalescent glooms:-- Where, for her magic, buds and blooms Mysterious perfumes, while she stands, A thornlike shadow, summoning The sleepy odors, that take wing Like bubbles from her dewy hands.