Sonnet XII

Alan Seeger

Like as a dryad, from her native bole

Coming at dusk, when the dim stars emerge,

To a slow river at whose silent verge

Tall poplars tremble and deep grasses roll,

Come thou no less and, kneeling in a shoal

Of the freaked flag and meadow buttercup,

Bend till thine image from the pool beam up

Arched with blue heaven like an aureole.

See how adorable in fancy then

Lives the fair face it mirrors even so,

O thou whose beauty moving among men

Is like the wind’s way on the woods below,

Filling all nature where its pathway lies

With arms that supplicate and trembling sighs.