Dryads
And then a gleam of white is seen
Among the huge old ilex-boughs;
The Dryads love its sombre green;
They make the tree their summer-house,
And there they swing and there carouse.
But, if the tender moon by chance
Come up the skies with silver feet,
They spring upon the ground and dance
Where most the turf is thick and sweet,—
And would that we were there to see 't!
Nay! Nay! For should the woodman find
A Dryad in a hollow tree.
He drops his hatchet, stricken blind—
I know not why, unless it be
The maid's Immortal, and not he!
For none may see the nymph uncursed.
And things unchristian haunt the woods…
They stoop above our wells athirst.
They love our rustling solitudes
Where olden magic ever broods:
The Dryads dwell in Easter woods!
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