In Arcady

I remember, when a child, How within the April wild Once I walked with Mystery In the groves of Arcady…. Through the boughs, before, behind, Swept the mantle of the wind, Thunderous and unconfined. Overhead the curving moon Pierced the twilight: a cocoon, Golden, big with unborn wings- Beauty, shaping spiritual things, Vague, impatient of the night, Eager for its heavenward flight Out of darkness into light. Here and there the oaks assumed Satyr aspects; shadows gloomed, Hiding, of a dryad look; And the naiad-frantic brook, Crying, fled the solitude, Filled with terror of the wood, Or some faun-thing that pursued. In the dead leaves on the ground Crept a movement; rose a sound: Everywhere the silence ticked As with hands of things that picked At the loam, or in the dew,- Elvish sounds that crept or flew,- Beak-like, pushing surely through. Down the forest, overhead, Stammering a dead leaf fled, Filled with elemental fear Of some dark destruction near- One, whose glowworm eyes I saw Hag with flame the crooked haw, Which the moon clutched like a claw. Gradually beneath the tree Grew a shape; a nudity: Lithe and slender; silent as Growth of tree or blade of grass; Brown and silken as the bloom Of the trillium in the gloom, Visible as strange perfume. For an instant there it stood, Smiling on me in the wood: And I saw its hair was green As the leaf-sheath, gold of sheen: And its eyes an azure wet, From within which seemed to jet Sapphire lights and violet. Swiftly by I saw it glide; And the dark was deified: Wild before it everywhere Gleamed the greenness of its hair; And around it danced a light, Soft, the sapphire of its sight, Making witchcraft of the night. On the branch above, the bird Trilled to it a dreamy word: In its bud the wild bee droned Honeyed greeting, drowsy-toned: And the brook forgot the gloom, Hushed its heart, and, wrapped in bloom, Breathed a welcome of perfume. To its beauty bush and tree Stretched sweet arms of ecstasy; And the soul within the rock Lichen-treasures did unlock As upon it fell its eye; And the earth, that felt it nigh, Into wildflowers seemed to sigh…. Was it dryad? was it faun? Wandered from the times long gone. Was it sylvan? was it fay?- Dim survivor of the day When Religion peopled streams, Woods and rocks with shapes like gleams,- That invaded then my dreams? Was it shadow? was it shape? Or but fancy's wild escape?- Of my own child's world the charm That assumed material form?- Of my soul the mystery, That the spring revealed to me, There in long-lost Arcady?