Xxxvii

Down in the woods a sorcerer, Out of rank rain and death, distils,-- Through chill alembics of the air,-- Aromas that brood everywhere Among the dingles of the hills: The bitter myrrh of dead leaves fills Wet valleys (where the gaunt weeds bleach) With sodden scents of wood decay;-- As if a spirit all the day Sat breathing softly ’neath the beech.

With other eyes I see her flit, The wood-witch of the wild perfumes, Among her sleepy owls,--that sit, A fluffy white, in crescent-lit Dim glens and opalescent glooms:-- Where, for her magic, buds and blooms Mysterious perfumes, while she stands, A fragrant shadow, summoning The eery odors that take wing, Like bubbles, from her rainy hands.