Secreta Silvarum: Prelude

Oh yon, when Holda leaves her hill 
of winter, on the quest of June, 
black oaks with emerald lamplets thrill 
that flicker forth to her magic tune. 
At dawn the forest shivers whist 
and all the hidden glades awake; 
then sunshine gems the milk-white mist 
and the soft-swaying branches make 
along its edge a woven sound 
of legends that allure and flit 
and horns wound towards the enchanted ground 
where, in the light moon-vapours lit, 
all night, while the black woods in mass, 
serried, forbid with goblin fear, 
fay-revels gleam o'er the pale grass 
till shrill-throats ring the matins near. 
Oh there, oh there in the sweet o' the year, 
adventurous in the witching green, 
last feal of the errant spear, 
to seek the eyes of lost Undine 
clear blue above the blue cold stream 
that lingers till her plaint be done, 
oh, and perchance from that sad dream 
to woo her, laughing, to the sun 
and that glad blue that seems to flow 
far up, where dipping branches lift 
sidelong their soft-throng'd frondage slow 
and slow the thin cloud-fleecelets drift. 
Oh, there to drowse the summer thro' 
deep in some odorous twilit lair, 
swoon'd in delight of golden dew 
within the sylvan witches hair; 
the while on half-veil'd eyes to feel 
the yellow sunshafts broken dim, 
and seldom waftures moth-like steal 
and settle, on the bare-flung limb: 
or under royal autumn, pall'd 
in smouldering magnificence, 
to feel the olden heart enthrall'd 
in wisdoms of forgotten sense, 
and mad desire and pain that fill'd 
red August's heart of throbbing bloom 
in one grave hour of knowledge still'd 
where glory ponders o'er its doom: 
and, when the boughs are sombre lace 
and silence chisels silver rime, 
o'er some old hearth, with dim-lit face, 
to dream the vanish'd forest prime, 
the springtime's sweet and June's delight, 
more precious now that hard winds chill 
the dews that made their mornings bright, 
and Holda sleeps beneath her hill. 

I
What tho' the outer day be brazen rude 
not here the innocence of morn is fled: 
this green unbroken dusk attests it wed 
with freshness, where the shadowy breasts are nude, 
hers guess'd, whose looks, felt dewy-cool, elude ? 
save this reproach that smiles on foolish dread: 
wood-word, grave gladness in its heart, unsaid, 
knoweth the guarded name of Quietude. 
Nor start, if satyr-shapes across the path 
tumble; it is but children: lo, the wrath 
couchant, heraldic, of her beasts that pierce 
with ivory single horn whate'er misplaced 
outrageous nears, or whinny of the fierce 
Centaur, or mailed miscreant unchaste. 

II
O friendly shades, where anciently I grew! 
me entering at dawn a child ye knew, 
all little welcoming leaves, and jealous wove 
your roof of lucid emerald above, 
that scarce therethro' the envious sun might stray, 
save smiling dusk or, lure for idle play, 
such glancing finger your chance whim allows, 
all that long forenoon of the tuneful boughs; 
which growing on, the myriad small noise 
and flitting of the wood-life's busy joys, 
thro' tenuous weft of sound, had left, divined, 
the impending threat of silence, clear, behind: 
and, noon now past, that hush descended large 
in the wood's heart, and caught me in its marge 
of luminous foreboding widely flung; 
so hourlong I have stray'd, and tho' among 
the glimpsing lures of all green aisles delays 
that revelation of its wondrous gaze, 
yet am I glad to wander, glad to seek 
and find not, so the gather'd tufts bespeak, 
naked, reclined, its friendly neighbourhood ? 
as in this hollow of the rarer wood 
where, listening, in the cool glen-shade, with me, 
white-bloom'd and quiet, stands a single tree; 
rich spilth of gold is on the eastward rise; 
westward the violet gloom eludes mine eyes. 
This is the house of Pan, not whom blind craze 
and babbling wood-wits tell, where bare flints blaze, 
noon-tide terrific with the single shout, 
but whom behind each bole sly-peering out 
the traveller knows, but turning, disappear'd 
with chuckle of laughter in his thicket-beard, 
and rustle of scurrying faun-feet where the ground 
each autumn deeper feels its yellow mound. 
Onward: and lo, at length, the secret glade, 
soft-gleaming grey, what time the grey trunks fade 
in the white vapours o'er its further rim. 
'Tis no more time to linger: now more dim 
the woods are throng'd to ward the haunted spot 
where, as I turn my homeward face, I wot 
the nymphs of twilight have resumed, unheard, 
their glimmering dance upon the glimmering sward. 

III
The point of noon is past, outside: light is asleep; 
brooding upon its perfect hour: the woods are deep 
and solemn, f