Dryaas

The Dryads dwell in Easter woods,
Though mortals may not see them there;
They haunt our rustling solitudes,
And love the solemn valleys where
The bracken mocks their tawny hair.

And where the rushes make a hedge
With flowering lilies round the lake,
They come to shelter in the sedge;
They dip their shining feet and slake
Their thirst where shallow waters break.

But through the sultry noon their home
Surrounds some smooth old beechen stem,
Behold how thick the empty dome
Is heaped with russet leaves for them,
Where burr or thistle never came!

And there they lie in languid flocks,
A drift of sweetness unespied;
They dream among their tawny locks
Until the welcome eventide
Breathe freshly through the woods outside.

And then a gleam of white is seen
Among the huge old ilex-boughs;
The Dryads love its sombre green;
They make the tree their summer-house,
And there they swing and there carouse.

But, if the tender moon by chance
Come up the skies with silver feet,
They spring upon the ground and dance
Where most the turf is thick and sweet,—
And would that we were there to see't!

Nay! Nay! For should the woodman find
A Dryad in a hollow tree,
He drops his hatchet, stricken blind—
I know not why, unless it be
The maid's Immortal, and not he!

For none may see the nymph uncursed.
And things unchristian haunt the woods...
They stoop above our wells athirst,
They love our rustling solitudes
Where olden magic ever broods:

The Dryads dwell in Easter woods!