In the heart of the forest arising, Slim, ghostly, and fair, Ethereal offspring of moisture, Of earth and of air; With slender stems anchored together Where first they uncurl, Each tipped with its exquisite lily Of mother-of-pearl; Mid the pine-needles, closely enwoven Its roots to embale,— The Indian-pipe of the woodland, Thrice lovely and frail! Is this but an earth-springing fungus— This darling of Fate Which out of the moulding darkness Such light can create? Or is it the spirit of Beauty, Here drawn by love's lure To give to the forest a something Unearthy and pure: To crystallize dewdrop and balsam And dryad-lisped words And starbeam and moonrise and rapture And song of wild birds? |