The Wood Anemone
The thorn-tree waved a bough of May
And all its branches bent
To indicate the wildwood way
The Wind and Sunbeam went.
A wildrose here, a wildrose there
Lifted appealing eyes,
And looked the path they did not dare
Reveal in other wise.
Wild parsley tossed a plume of gold
And breathed so sweet a sigh,
I guessed the way, it never told,
Which they had hastened by.
I traced the Beam, so swift and white,
In many a woodland place
By wildflower footprints of its flight
And gleamings of its grace.
I knew its joy had filled with song
The high heart of the bird,
That rippled, rippled all day long
In dells that hushed and heard.
I knew the Wind with flashing feet
Had charmed the brook withal,
Who in its cascades did repeat
The music of that call.
All were in league to help me find,
Or tell to me the way,
Which now before me, now behind,
These two had gone in play.
I could not understand how these
Could hide so near to me,
When by the whispering of the trees
I knew the wood could see.
Until, all breathless with its joy,
The Wind, that could not rest,
Ran past me, like a romping boy,
And bade me look my best.
And there I saw them clasped in bliss
Beneath an old beech tree:
And-here's the flower born of their kiss —
This wild anemone.
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