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I will walk the sunny wood, Of the Faun Deep and tranquil as my mood, in his And watch how the honeyed sunlight is Meditation. Hung in the great boughs of the trees,

And the pattern the branchwork weaves Under the panoply of leaves, And how high up two butterflies Pass, vaulting, out into the skies.

Or, entering a silent glade, Draw a sharp breath and stand dismayed At beauty which doth straight present Such a spasm of ravishment

Sight is confused, and doth confess Her wreck in voiceless tenderness: Seeing the flower-decked cherry-trees — Unruffled ever by any breeze,

Unburned by bright dawn's fiery chill — Standing celestially still.... Or lay me down‘ neath chestnut boughs, And drowse and dream and dream and drowse,

Drunk with the greenness overhead, Until a blossom of sharp red, Shook from her high and scalding place, Splash with chill scent my upturned face.