The Wood Spirit

Ah me! I still remember How flushed, before the shower, The dusk was; like a scarlet rose, Or blood-red poppy-flower.

Now heaven is starred; the moonlight Lays blurs upon the grain-- You may not know it from white frost, The moonlight on the rain.

And all the forest utters A restless moan in rest, For all the deep, dark shadow lies Like iron on its breast.

I mark the moveless shadow, I mark the unreaped corn, Then something whispers overhead, “Come to me, mortal-born.”

I sit alone and listen; The low leaves sound and sigh; The dew drips from the bearded grain, A mist slips from the sky.--

I hear her whisper, whisper, And breathe in some dim place; Her feet are easier than the dew, And than the mist her face.

I may not clasp her ever, This spirit made for song, Who dwelleth in the young, young oak The old, old oaks among.

Her limbs are molded moonlight; Her breasts are silver moons: She glimmers and she glitters where The purple shadow swoons.

And since she knows I love her, She says my soul has died, And laughs and mocks me in the mist That haunts the forest-side.

When winds run mad in woodlands And all the great boughs swing, I see her wild hair blow and blow Black as a raven’s wing.

When winds are tamed and tethered And stars are keen as frost, I search and seek within the wood, There where my soul was lost.

I seek her, and she flies me; I follow; and the whole Dim woodland echoes with her voice, Soft calling to my soul.