Here to pale melancholy moons, In haunted nights of dreamy Junes, Wails wildly the weird whippoorwill, Whose strains, like those the owlet croons, Wild woods with phantoms fill. THE SOUND OF THE SAP When the ice was thick on the flower-beds, And the sleet was caked on the briar; When the frost was down in the brown bulb's heads, And the ways were clogged with mire: When the snow on syringa and spiræa-tree Seemed the ghosts of perished flowers; And the days were sorry as sorry could be, And Time limped, cursing his fardel of hours: Heigh-ho! had I not a book and the logs, That chirped with the sap in the burning?-- Or was it the frogs in the far-off bogs? Or the bush-sparrow's song at the turning? And I strolled by ways that the Springtime knows, In her mossy dells, and her ferny passes; Where the earth was holy with lily and rose, And the myriad life of the grasses. And I spoke with the Spring as a lover, who speaks To his sweetheart; to whom he has given A kiss that has kindled the rose of her cheeks, And her eyes with the laughter of heaven. The sound of the sap!--What a simple thing!-- But the sound of the sap had the power To make the song-sparrow come and sing, And the winter woodlands flower! THE DRYAD I have seen her limpid eyes, Large with gradual laughter, rise In the wild-rose nettles; Slowly, like twin flowers, unfold, Smiling,--when the wind, behold! Whisked them into petals. I have seen her hardy cheek, Like a molten coral, leak Through the leaves around it Of thick Chickasaws; but so, When I made more certain, lo! A red plum I found it. I have found her racy lips, And her roguish finger-tips, But a haw or berry; Glimmers of her there and here, Just, forsooth, enough to cheer, And to make me merry. Often from the ferny rocks Dazzling rimples of her locks At me she hath shaken; And I've followed--but in vain!-- They had trickled into rain, Sunlit, on the braken. Once her full limbs flashed on me, Naked, where a royal tree Checkered mossy places With soft sunlight and dim shade,-- Such a haunt as myths have made For the Satyr races. There, it seemed, hid amorous Pan; For a sudden pleading ran Through the thicket, wooing Me to search and, suddenly, From the swaying elder-tree, Flew a wild-dove, cooing. A DEAD LILY The South saluted her mouth Till her breath was sweet with the South. The North in her ear breathed low, Till her veins ran crystal and snow. The West 'neath her eyelids blew, Till her heart beat honey and dew. And the East with his magic old Changed her body to pearl and gold.