BETWEEN thin fingers of the pine
The fluid gold of sunlight slips,
And through the tamarack's gray-green fringe
Upon the level birch leaves drips.

Through all the still, moist forest air
Slow trickles down the soft, warm sheen,
And flecks the branching wood of ferns
With tender tints of pallid green,

To rest where close to mouldered trunks,
The red and purple berries lie,
Where tiny jungles of the moss
Their tropic forests rear on high.

Fast, fast asleep the woodland rests,
Stirs not the tamarack's topmost sheaf,
And slow the subtle sunlight glides
With noiseless step from leaf to leaf.

And lo, he comes! the fairy prince,
The heir of richer, softer strands:
A summer guest of sterner climes,
He moves across the vassal lands.

And lo, he comes! the fairy prince,
The joyous sweet southwestern breeze:
He bounds across the dreaming lake,
And bends to kiss the startled trees,

Till all the woodland wakes to life,
The pheasant chirps, the chipmunks cry,
And scattered flakes of golden light
Athwart the dark wood-spaces fly.

Ah, but a moment, and away!
The fair, false prince has kissed and fled:
No more the wood shall feel his touch,
No more shall know his joyous tread.