Page 19
THE DRYAD
ABOUT her hover pensive souls of flowers; Like violet haunted places Where peer the dryad faces, After delicious showers; Where the leaves tremble in the wind's embraces.
In her unfathomed eyes there is the vision Of woodland joys and dreams, Where a soft silence teems With sunlight through a greenery elysian, Hunting the shadows o'er embowered streams.
Her voice is like the voice of music's daughter; She hath kissed grief to sleep. Sweet spirits guard her and her day-dreams keep. To lips that thirst, her love is like sweet water Upbubbling in the sun from fountains deep.