THE LIMNAD

I The lake she haunts gleams mistily Through sleepy boughs of melody,— Lost 'mid lone hills beside the sea, In tangled bush and brier:— Where reflected sunsets write Ghostly things in golden light; Where, along the pine-crowned height, Clouds of twilight, rosy white, Build far towers of fire. II 'Mid the rushes there that swing, Flowering flags where voices sing When night-winds are murmuring, And the stars of midnight glitter; Blossom-white, with purple locks, Underneath the stars' still flocks, In the dusky waves she rocks, Rocks, and all the landscape mocks With a song both sweet and bitter. III Soft it sounds, at first, as dreams Filled with tears that fall in streams; Then it soars, until it seems Beauty's very self hath spoken; And the woods grow silent quite, Stars wax faint and flowers wane white; And the nightingales that light Near, or hear her through the night, Die, their hearts with longing broken. IV Dark, dim, and sad o'er mournful lands, White-throated stars heaped in her hands, Like wildwood buds, the Twilight stands, The Twilight, dreaming, lingers; Listening where the Limnad sings Witcheries, whose magic brings A great moon from hidden springs, Pale with amorous quiverings Feet of fire and silvery fingers. V In the vales Auloniads, On the mountains Oreads, On the leas Leimoniads, Whiter than the stars that glisten, Pan, the Satyrs, Dryades, Fountain-lovely Naiades, Foam-lipped Oceanides, Breathless 'mid their seas and trees, Stay and look and lean and listen. VI Large-eyed, Siren-like she stands, In the lake or on its sands, And with rapture from the hands Of the Night some stars are shaken; To her song the rushes swing, Lilies nod and ripples ring, Lost in helpless listening— These will wake who hear her sing, But one mortal will not waken.