The Dryad
'T is my pleasure not to know
Much of mortal joy or pain;
Blithely through my life I go
With playful fancies in my brain.
A furtive creature, wild and shy,
I may not meet a mortal eye:
In densest woods alone I lurk
To watch the building birds at work.
Like a free, fantastic elf,
I weave my hair with berries red;
Flit and frolic by myself,
And mock the singers overhead.
I used to be a thing of bliss;
I knew no other life than this;
But on a day, a golden day,
I found a mortal far astray.
I heard his foot-fall on the grass,
And held my breath till he should pass.
He had a free and rustic grace,
An agile frame, a swarthy face;
His coat was green, his cap was red,
His black locks tangled round his head.
I deemed him, as he loitered by,
Almost as beautiful as I.
He paused within an open glade,
And many a solemn word he said;
And ever, when he ceased to speak,
Large tear-drops trickled down his cheek.
His eyes gazed upward through the air;
I looked, but there was nothing there.
He raised his arms, hand clasped in hand;
His words I could not understand;
Then sighed and smiled, and so was gone.
'T was then I learned I was alone!
When young birds chirp themselves to sleep,
I sometimes wish that I could weep;
I sit me down upon a stone
And feel that I am all alone;
I rest my cheek upon my hand
And sigh, but nothing understands;
I sing my very songs are sad—;
I would I ne'er had seen the lad!
Ah me, I feel what must be pain—;
Would I might see the lad again!
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