The Greek, who knew and loved me well
Baptized me Nymph or Naiad;
In fairer nooks he bade me dwell
Than ever woodland Fay had.
My home is in the glen of moss,
Where flecks of sun and shadow cross
On wings of gold and umber.
I tumble round my oaken knurls,
And twisted knees of willows;
And with the wild grape’s straying curls
Coquet my mimic billows.
The dainty Fairy of the Fern
To prank his plumage lingers,
And stooping, in my pebbled urn
Dips all his dimpled fingers.
In mossy beds of gold and green
My scarlet twin-berry nestles,
And graceful alders o’er me lean
And shake their golden tassels.
Below my banks the freckled trout,
With all his fins a-quiver,
Among the fern-roots, in and out,
Glides slowly towards the river.
Brown-cheeked, brown-eyes, the barefoot girl
Comes wading up for cresses,
And round her shining ankles curl
My ripples’ cool caresses.
All day I sing a gurgled song
Among the reeds and sedges;
Or, where my timid waves get strong,
Slip, laughing, down the ledges.
The poet wins a mellower note
From lapse of bubbling waters,
And steals from every Naiad’s throat
The tunes Apollo taught us.
My russet oaks, with knotted thews,
The gray-gold of my sallows,
The artist sets in living hues,
O’er smooth or wrinkled shallows.
I cannot love the brawling mill;
I shun the glaring meadows,
And gayly lead my frolic rill
‘Mid mossy rocks and shadows.
My lovers, all, are all things shy,
Song-filled, or blossom-laden,
The glad, pure lives of earth and sky,
From midge to musing maiden.
George Shepard Burleigh
