In The Forest.We lie beneath the forest shade Whose sunny tremors dapple us; She is a proud-eyed Grecian maid, and I am Sardanapalus: A king uncrowned, whose sole allegiance Obtains in dusky forest regions How cool and liquid seems the sky; How blue and still the distance is White fleets of cloud at anchor lie, And mute are all existences, Save here and there a bird that launches A shaft of song among the branches. Within this alien realm of shade We keep a sylvan Passover; We happy twain__a wayward maid, A careless, gay philosopher; But unto me she seems a Venus, And Paphian grasses nod between us. Her drooping eyelids half conceal A vague uncertain mystery; Her tender glances half reveal A sad impassioned history: A tale of hopes and fears unspoken, Of thoughts that die and leave no token. "Oh, braid a wreath of budding sprays And crown me queen," the maiden says; "queen of the shadowy woodland ways, And wandering winds whose cadences Are unto thee these words repeating Which I must perish while secreting!" I wove a wreath of leaves and buds And flowers with golden chalices, And crowned her queen of summer woods And dreamy forest palaces,__ Queen of that realm whose tender story Makes life a splendor, death a glory. ___Edmund Flint
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