AS A LAPWING FLIESTO ELISABETH
I saw a woodsy look come in thine eyes,The hush of listening had crossed thy face—Thine eyebrows lifted in a line of grace—I had not thought that thou wert forest-wise—Sudden—thy beryl eyes grew blue as skiesWhere leaning hills their mirrored forms retraceWith drifting clouds in glassy sea's embrace,—Thou changest quickly, as a lapwing flies.
Is't he of Hamelin with his magic pipeWho whistles thee to wanderings far and near?Is it his mystic whispering haunts thine earWhen we hear not?—Pan was his prototype.Far off he whistles thee—thy spirit keens— Following him into his maze of dreams.
[9]
