Circe

Methinks I am akin to tree and grass;
     I feel a faintness in my limbs as though
     Sunshine and dew were mingled with the flow
Of their lax veins, unseen, the while they pass
Changing the pith and sinew, as of brass,
     To leaf and bloom, and roots that bind me so
     To the rich earth, I would not rise and go,
But resting, feel my bloomy wealth amass.
Now low winds murmur through my crowded boughs,
     A faint delirium thrills my fluttering leaves,
With hum of bees the air begins to drowse
     And mist-like heavy to my bosom cleaves.
O Circe Spring time, in thy conquering arms
I lie a powerless thing, fast, rooted by thy charms!