Second Sight

They lean their faces to me through Green windows of the woods; Their cool throats sweet with honey-dew Beneath their leafy hoods-- No dream they dream but hath been true Here in the solitudes.

Star trillium, in the underbrush, In whom Spring bares her face; Sun eglantine, that breathes the blush Of Summer’s quiet grace; Moon mallow, in whom lives the hush Of Autumn’s tragic pace.

This one hath heard the dryad’s sighs Behind the covering bark; That one hath felt the satyr’s eyes Gleam through the bosky dark; And one hath seen the Naiad rise In waters all a-spark.

I bend my soul unto them, stilled In worship man hath lost:-- The old-world myths that science killed Are living things almost To me through these whose forms are filled With Beauty’s pagan ghost.

And with new eyes I seem to see The world these live within,-- A shuttered world of mystery, Where unreal forms begin Real forms of ideality That have no unreal kin.