Or from the same group these charming glimpses of “an unseen presence that eludes”:— Perhaps a Dryad, in whose tresses cling The loamy odors of old solitudes, Who, from her beechen doorway, calls; * * * * * Or, haply ’tis a Naiad now who slips, Like some white lily, from her fountain’s glass, While from her dripping hair and breasts and hips, The moisture rains cool music on the grass. * * * * * Or now it is an Oread—whose eyes Are constellated dusk—who stands confessed, As naked as a flow’r; her heart’s surprise, Like morning’s rose, mantling her brow and breast: She, shrinking from my presence, all distressed Stands for a startled moment ere she flies, Her deep hair blowing, up the mountain crest, Wild as a mist that trails along the dawn. And is’t her footfalls lure me? or the sound Of airs that stir the crisp leaf on the ground? And is’t her body glimmers on yon rise? Or dog-wood blossoms snowing on the lawn? [Illustration: Madison Cawein] Who shall deny both charm and accomplishment to these lines, particularly to the glimpse of the dryad in her “beechen doorway,” but on the next page of the same volume occurs this more realistic apostrophe addressed to the “Rain-Crow,” giving a foretokening hint of his later manner of observation, and who shall say that it has not a truer charm and accomplishment? Can freckled August,—drowsing warm and blonde Beside a wheat-shock in the white-topped mead, In her hot hair the oxeyed daisies wound,— O bird of rain, lend aught but sleepy heed To thee? when no plumed weed, no feather’d seed Blows by her; and no ripple breaks the pond, That gleams like flint between its rim of grasses, Through which the dragonfly forever passes Like splintered diamond. Drouth weights the trees, and from the farmhouse eaves The locust, pulse-beat of the summer day, Throbs; and the lane, that shambles under leaves Limp with the heat—a league of rutty way— Is lost in dust; and sultry scents of hay Breathe from the panting meadows heaped with sheaves— Now, now, O bird, what hint is there of rain, In thirsty heaven or on burning plain, That thy keen eye perceives? But thou art right. Thou prophesiest true. For hardly hast thou ceased thy forecasting, When, up the western fierceness of scorched blue, Great water-carrier winds their buckets bring Brimming with freshness. How their dippers ring And flash and rumble! lavishing dark dew On corn and forestland, that, streaming wet, Their hilly backs against the downpour set, Like giants vague in view.