Transformation

It is the time when, by the forest falls, The touchmenots hang fairy 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, or, bubbling in the saps, Laughs 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 fragrant with her flight? And, lo! meseems I am a Faun again, Part of the myths that I pursue in vain.