What leaps in the bosk but a satyr? What pipes on the wind but a faun? Or laughs in the waters that scatter, But limbs of a nymph who is gone, When we walk in the dawn?
What sings on the hills but a fairy? Or sighs in the fields but a sprite? What breathes through the leaves but the airy Soft spirits of shadow and light, When we walk in the night?
Behold how the world-heart is eager To draw us and hold us and claim! Through truths of the dreams that beleaguer Her soul she makes ours the same, And death but a name.
Lush green the grass that grows between The willows of the bottom-land; Verged by the careless water, tall and green, The brown-topped cat-tails stand.
The cows come gently here to browse, Slow through the great-leafed sycamores; You hear a dog bark from a low-roofed house With cedars round its doors.
Then all is quiet as the wings Of the high buzzard floating there; Anon a woman's high-pitched voice that sings An old camp-meeting air.
A flapping cock that crows; and then-- Heard drowsy through the rustling corn-- A flutter, and the cackling of a hen Within a hay-sweet barn.
How still again! no water stirs; No wind is heard; although the weeds Are waved a little; and from silk-filled burrs Drift by a few soft seeds.
So drugged with sleep and dreams, that you Expect to see her gliding by,-- Hummed round of bees, through blossoms spilling dew,-- The Spirit of July.
Low, swallow-swept and gray, Between the orchard and the spring, All its wide windows overflowing hay, And crannied doors a-swing, The old barn stands to-day.
Deep in its hay the Leghorn hides A round white nest; and, humming soft On roof and rafter, or its log-rude sides, Black in the sun-shot loft, The building hornet glides.
Along its corn-crib, cautiously As thieving fingers, skulks the rat; Or, in warped stalls of fragrant timothy, Gnaws at some loosened slat, Or passes shadowy.
A dream of drouth made audible Before its door, hot, smooth, and shrill All day the locust sings.... What other spell Shall hold it, lazier still Than the long day's, now tell?--
Dusk and the cricket and the strain Of tree-toad and of frog; and stars That burn above the rich west's ribbéd stain; And dropping pasture bars, And cow-bells up the lane.