The Forest Pool

One memory persuades me when Dusk’s lonely star burns overhead, To take the gray path through the glen-- That finds the forest pool, made red With sunset--and forget again, Forget that she is dead.

Once more I look into the spring, That on one rock a finger white Of foam that beckons still doth bring-- Some moon-wan spirit of the night, Who dwells within its murmuring, Her life the sad moonlight.

I see the red dusk touch it here With fire like a blade of blood; One star reflected, white and clear, Like a wood-blossom’s drowning bud; While all my grief stands very near, Pale in the solitude.

And then, behold, while yet the moon Hangs--silver as a twisted horn Blown out of Elfland--sweet with June, White in white clusters of the thorn, Slow, in the water as a tune, An image pale is born:

That has her throat of frost; her lips-- Her mouth where God’s anointment lies; Her eyes, wherefrom love’s arrow-tips Break, like the starlight from dark skies; Her hair, a hazel heap that slips; Her throat and hair and eyes.

And then I stoop; the water kissed, The face fades from me into air; And in the pool’s dark amethyst My own pale face returns my stare: Then night and mist--and in the mist One dead leaf drifting there.