Forest Silence

Where she reclines In a rock's cup, Smooth, tawny--mossed, Under tall pines, Her eyes look up, Her gaze is lost. Pine--plumes, sea--gray, When air sings through The rust--red stems, Wave slowly, fray The liquid blue To flashing gems. A lizard's haste Rustles dead leaves; A light cone drops; Else this sweet waste No sound receives But stirred tree--tops. A thrill of air From far slow draws Its long caress, Sighed out nowhere; Then noon at pause Drinks silentness. But she; what waft Of perfume brought Her musing stirs? What pure keen draught Of wine--like thought Even now is hers? Her eyes dream dreams; Coiled foot stirs not, Nor idle hand. Spell--drowsed she seems, Hushed in some plot Of faery land. Yet soft, with such Light lingerings felt As when boughs part Again to touch, Spring, meet and melt Within her heart Hope, wish, and prayer, And memory warm From far hours, all Newly aware Of sudden charm And wistful call. Out of lost years Earth's mystery, Strange with its pain, Holy with fears, Touches her, shy As breeze, as rain. And this rich hour With feeling fills Too full to hold Its wealth--a flower That trembling spills Seed--spice of gold.