A Reed by the River/In the Woods
IN THE WOODS
The dryads are not deadNor satyrs fled;Today within the woodTheir sovereign stood,Vital, erect, with gnarled and out-thrust armsInviting expectation's old alarms.
Perchance in the wind's wayA summons lay;Or a bird's keener throatThe piercing noteOf echoes long since dead it hadThat called to life, to love, to tumult mad.
With the dawn's kindling fire,Or day's red pyre,Once more the old sap heard,Thrilled deep and stirred,And straightway from the silent heart it creptThrough the sere veins for ages that have slept,
Crying; "Awake! Behold!"The stalwart pines and old,The kingly oaks and high,Did writhe and sighRent with mute longing and the imprisoned painOf dreaming broke, of memory again.