(TO EDITH M. THOMAS)
Into what beech or silvern birch, O friend
Suspected ever of a dryad strain,
Hast crept at last, delighting to regain
Thy sylvan house? Now whither shall I wend,
Or by what wingèd post my greeting send,
Bird, butterfly, or bee? Shall three moons wane,
And yet not found?--Ah, surely it was pain
Of old, for mortal youth his heart to lend
To any hamadryad! In his hour
Of simple trust, wild impulse him bereaves:
She flees, she seeks her strait enmossèd bower
And while he, searching, softly calls, and grieves,
Oblivious, high above she laughs in leaves,
Or patters tripping talk to the quick shower.