Sylvia of the Woodland

I

O you, who know our Mays that blow
The bluets by the ways;
The Indian-pink,--whose bloom you ’d think
Was blood for some wild bee to drink,--
How--can you say--in their wise way
Is it you ’re like our Mays?--
In gleam and gloom and wild perfume
Of moods that run from shade to sun:--
While in you seems the light that dreams
In thoughts of other days.

II

Meseems some song, for which I long,
From you to me takes wing
Each time you speak; a bird, whose beak
Is in my heart; whose wildwood art
Makes every beat say “Sweet, sweet, sweet,”
And all its pulses sing.
And when I gaze upon your face,
I seem to look into a brook,
That laughs through buds and leafing woods,
Reflecting all the spring.

III

You spoke but now--and, lo! I vow,
From haunts of hart and hind
I seemed to hear Romance draw near,
White hand in hand with Song, and stand,
In some green aisle of wood, and smile,
Beguiling soul and mind:
You laugh--and, lo! I seem to go
In Mirth’s young train; and bird-songs rain
Around, above; and Joy and Love
Come dancing down the wind.