Transformation

It is the time when, by the forest falls, The touch-me-nots hang faery folly-caps; When ferns and flowers fill the lichened laps Of rocks with color, rich as orient shawls: And in my heart I hear a voice that calls Me woodward, where the hamadryad wraps Her limbs in bark, and, bubbling in the saps, Sings the sweet Greek of Pan’s old madrigals: There is a gleam that lures me up the stream-- A Naiad swimming with wet limbs of light? Perfume that leads me on from dream to dream-- An oread’s footprints flowering into flight? And, lo! meseems I am a Faun again, One with the myths that I pursue in vain.