Ah me! the nymphs of Greece are dead.
Their slender bodies slip no more
Through flowery meads of white or read,
Nor sport with waves upon the shore.
The hand to the oak-tree's sturdy side!
Feel it thrill beneath thy finger-tips!
'T is the oak-tree's darling dryad bride,
With the laugh of the spring on her lips.
She slips from out thy doubting grasp.
The lady of the oak,
Light as air, and swift of flight,
Joys in her whimsic fairy might,
Swings on the leaflets with sun-warmth bright,
Coquets with the violets sweet and white
That hide in the velvet bank.
Ah me! the charm of eld is past
With knighthood and the court of love.
In vain our striving to recast,
Yet no red planet flames above.
Pillow thy head on the fine-spun grass
Under the locust-tree.
What is that song, dim as a mass,
That floateth down to thee?
'T is a gentle lady singing
In her castle nigh,
Waiting for her own knight lover
To come pricking by.
Over land and sea he's wending,
True love messages she's sending.
Fragile, fragrant all around thee,
Look, the blossoms lie!