Upon a wood's dim shaded edge

Upon a wood's dim shaded edgeStands a dusty hawthorn hedgeBeside a road from which I passTo cool my feet in deep rich grass.I pause to listen to the songOf a brook spilling alongBehind a patchy willow screenWhose lazy evening shadows leanTheir scattered gold upon a gladeThrough which the staring daisies wade,And the resilient poplar trees,Slowly turning in the breeze,Flash their facets to the sun,Swaying in slow unison.Here quietude folds a spellWithin a stilly shadowed dellWherein I rest, and through the leavesThe sun a soundless pattern weavesUpon the floor. The leafy gladeIs pensive in the dappled shade,While the startled sunlight dripsFrom beech and alder fingertips,And birches springing suddenlyErect in silence sleepilyClinging to their slender limbs,Whitening them as shadow dims.

As I lie here my fancy goesTo where a quiet oak bestowsIts shadow on a dreaming sceneOver which the broad boughs leanA canopy. The brook's a streamOn which long still days lie and dream,And where the lusty summer walks—Around his head are lilac stalks—In the shade beneath the treesTo let the cool stream fold his knees;While I lie in the leafy shadeUntil the nymphs troop down the glade.Their limbs that in the spring were whiteAre now burned golden by sunlight.They near the marge, and there they meetInverted selves stretched at their feet;And they kneel languorously thereTo comb and braid their short blown hairBefore they slip into the pool—Warm gold in silver liquid cool.

Evening turns and sunlight fallsIn flecks between the leafèd walls,Like golden butterflies whose wingsSlowly pulse and beat. Slow singsThe stream in a lower keyMurmuring down quietlyBetween its solemn purple stoneWith cooling ivy overgrown.

Sunset stains the western sky;Night comes soon, and now IFollow toward the evening star.A sheep bell tinkles faint and far,Then drips in silence as the sheepMove like clouds across the deepStill dusky meadows wet with dew.I stretch and roll and draw throughThe fresh sweet grass, and the airIs softer than my own soft hair.I lift up my eyes; the greenWest is a lake on which has beenCast a single lily. —See!In meadows stretching over meAre humming stars as thick as bees,And the reaching inky treesSweep the sky. I lie and hearThe voices of the fecund year,While the dark grows dim and deep,And I glide into dreamless sleep.