Helen Gray Cone

The Lost Dryad

 (TO EDITH M. THOMAS)

  Into what beech or silvern birch, O friend
  Suspected ever of a dryad strain,
  Hast crept at last, delighting to regain
  Thy sylvan house? Now whither shall I wend,
  Or by what wingèd post my greeting send,
  Bird, butterfly, or bee? Shall three moons wane,
  And yet not found?—Ah, surely it was pain
  Of old, for mortal youth his heart to lend
  To any hamadryad! In his hour
  Of simple trust, wild impulse him bereaves:
  She flees, she seeks her strait enmossèd bower
  And while he, searching, softly calls, and grieves,
  Oblivious, high above she laughs in leaves,
  Or patters tripping talk to the quick shower.