From "Rhoecus"

Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, As full of gracious youth and beauty still As the immortal freshness of that grace Carved for all ages on some Attic Frieze. A youth named Rhœcus, wandering in the wood, Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall, And, feeling pity of so fair a tree, He propped its gray trunk with admiring care, And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on. But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind That murmured “Rhœcus!” ’T was as if the leaves, Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it, And, while he paused bewildered, yet again It murmured “Rhœcus!” softer than a breeze. He started and beheld with dizzy eyes What seemed the substance of a happy dream Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak. It seemed a woman’s shape, yet far too fair To be a woman, and with eyes too meek For any that were wont to mate with gods. All naked like a goddess stood she there, And like a goddess all too beautiful To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame. “Rhœcus, I am the Dryad of this tree, Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew, “And with it I am doomed to live and die; The rain and sunshine are my caterers, Nor have I other bliss than simple life; Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can give, And with a thankful joy it shall be thine.” Then Rhœcus, with a flutter at the heart, Yet by the prompting of such beauty bold, Answered: “What is there that can satisfy The endless craving of the soul but love? Give me thy love, or but the hope of that Which must be evermore my nature’s goal.” After a little pause she said again, “But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, I give it, Rhœcus, though a perilous gift; An hour before the sunset meet me here.” And straightway there was nothing he could see But the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak, And not a sound came to his straining ears But the low trickling rustle of the leaves, And far away upon an emerald slope The falter of an idle shepherd’s pipe. Now, in those days of simpleness and faith, Men did not think that happy things were dreams Because they overstepped the narrow bourn Of likelihood, but reverently deemed Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful To be the guerdon of a daring heart. So Rhœcus made no doubt that he was blest, And all along unto the city’s gate Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked, The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont, And he could scarce believe he had not wings, Such sunshine seemed to glitter through his veins Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange. Young Rhœcus had a faithful heart enough, But one that in the present dwelt too much, And, taking with blithe welcome whatsoe’er Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound in that, Like the contented peasant of a vale, Deemed it the world, and never looked beyond. So, haply meeting in the afternoon Some comrades who were playing at the dice, He joined them, and forgot all else beside. The dice were rattling at the merriest, And Rhœcus, who had met but sorry luck, Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw, When through the room there hummed a yellow bee That buzzed about his ear with down-dropped legs As if to light. And Rhœcus laughed and said, Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss, “By Venus! does he take me for a rose?” And brushed him off with rough, impatient hand. But still the bee came back, and thrice again Rhœcus did beat him off with growing wrath. Then through the window flew the wounded bee, And Rhœcus, tracking him with angry eyes, Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly Against the red disk of the setting sun,— And instantly the blood sank from his heart, As if its very walls had caved away. Without a word he turned, and, rushing forth, Ran madly through the city and the gate, And o’er the plain, which now the wood’s long shade, By the low sun thrown forward broad and dim, Darkened wellnigh unto the city’s wall. Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree, And, listening fearfully, he heard once more The low voice murmur “Rhœcus!” close at hand: Whereat he looked around him, but could see Naught but the deepening glooms beneath the oak. Then sighed the voice, “O Rhœcus! never-more Shalt thou behold me or by day or night, Me, who would fain have blessed thee with a love More ripe and bounteous than ever yet Filled up with nectar any mortal heart: But thou didst scorn my humble messenger, And sent’st him back to me with bruised wings. We spirits only show to gentle eyes, We ever ask an undivided love, And he who scorns the least of Nature’s works Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all. Farewell! for thou canst never see me more.” Then Rhœcus beat his breast and groaned aloud, And cried “Be pitiful! forgive me yet This once, and I shall never need it more!” “Alas!” the voice returned, “’t is thou art blind, Not I unmerciful; I can forgive, But have no skill to heal thy spirit’s eyes; Only the soul hath power o’er itself.” With that again there murmured “Never-more!” And Rhœcus after heard no other sound, Except the rattling of the oak’s crisp leaves, Like the long surf upon a distant shore Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down. The night had gathered round him: o’er the plain The city sparkled with its thousand lights, And sounds of revel fell upon his ear Harshly and like a curse; above, the sky, With all its bright sublimity of stars, Deepened, and on his forehead smote the breeze: Beauty was all around him and delight, But from that eve he was alone on earth.