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Robert Laurence Binyon - Forest Silence
Work rating: Low

Where she reclines
 In a rock`s cup,
 Smooth, tawny--mossed,
 Under tall pines,
 Her eyes look up,
 Her gaze is lost.

 Pine--plumes, sea--gray,
 When air sings through
 The rust--red stems,
 Wave slowly, fray
 The liquid blue
 To flashing gems.

 A lizard`s haste
 Rustles dead leaves;
 A light cone drops;
 Else this sweet waste
 No sound receives
 But stirred tree--tops.

 A thrill of air
 From far slow draws
 Its long caress,
 Sighed out nowhere;
 Then noon at pause
 Drinks silentness.

 But she; what waft
 Of perfume brought
 Her musing stirs?
 What pure keen draught
 Of wine--like thought
 Even now is hers?

 Her eyes dream dreams;
 Coiled foot stirs not,
 Nor idle hand.
 Spell--drowsed she seems,
 Hushed in some plot
 Of faery land.

 Yet soft, with such
 Light lingerings felt
 As when boughs part
 Again to touch,
 Spring, meet and melt
 Within her heart

 Hope, wish, and prayer,
 And memory warm
 From far hours, all
 Newly aware
 Of sudden charm
 And wistful call.

 Out of lost years
 Earth`s mystery,
 Strange with its pain,
 Holy with fears,
 Touches her, shy
 As breeze, as rain.

 And this rich hour
 With feeling fills
 Too full to hold
 Its wealth--a flower
 That trembling spills
 Seed--spice of gold.
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