My Lady Of The Beeches

Here among the beeches     Winds and wild perfume,     That the twilight pleaches     Into gleam and gloom,     Build for her a room.     Her whose Beauty cometh,     Misty as the morn,     When the wild-bee hummeth,     At its honey-horn,     In the wayside thorn.     As the wood grows dimmer,     With the drowsy night,     Like a moonbeam glimmer     Here she walks in white,     With a firefly light.     Moths around her flitting,     Like a moth she goes,     Here a moment sitting     By this wilding rose,     With my heart's repose.     Every bud and flower     From her look has caught     Something of that hour     While she stood in thought     Gazing into naught.     Every bough that dances     Has assumed the grace     Of her form; and fancies,     Flashed from eye and face,     Brood about the place.     Every wind that flutters,     Says what is expressed     Of her heart and utters     Sounds of peace and rest     Pulsing in her breast.     And the water, shaken     In its plunge and poise,     To itself has taken     Quiet of her voice,     And restrains its joys.     Would that these could tell me     What and whence she is,     She, who doth enspell me,     Fill my soul with bliss     Of her spirit-kiss.     Though the heart beseech her,     And the soul implore,     Who is it may reach her,     Safe behind the door     Of all woodland lore?