The Hamadryad

She stood among the longest ferns The valley held; and in her hand One blossom like the light that burns, Vermilion, o’er a sunset land; And round her hair a twisted band Of pink-pierced mountain-laurel blooms: And darker than dark pools, that stand Below the star-communing glooms, Her eyes beneath her hair’s perfumes.

I saw the moon-pearl sandals on Her flower-white feet, that seemed too chaste To tread pure gold: and, like the dawn On splendid peaks that lord a waste Of solitude lost gods have graced, Her face: she stood there, faultless-hipped, Bound with the cestused silver,--chased With acorn-cup and crown, and tipped With oak-leaves,--whence her chiton slipped.

Limbs that the gods call loveliness!-- The grace and glory of all Greece Wrought in one marble form were less Than her perfection!--’Mid the trees I saw her; and time seemed to cease For me--And, lo! I lived my old Greek life again of classic ease, Barbarian as the myths that rolled Me back into the Age of Gold.