HONEY of woodland wild and of the hill,
The juices of the maple and the cane
And all the fulness of the fallen grain;
The pauses in the running of the rill,
Silence of distant meadows, voices far
Of unseen swallows in the upper air;
The beauty of the bending bough; the rare,
Soft rose, the sunbeam and the melting star —
What are they all but shadows in the night
To thee, where beauty burns a perfect light!
I see thee standing gracefuller than grass,
Naked, with one foot in the lingering stream,
The sun upon thee, perfect! or alas,
Is it not thee, my dryad, but a dream!