Elaine Goodale Eastman

With careless joy we thread the woodland ways And reach her broad domain. Thro' sense of strength and beauty, free as air. We feel our savage kin, And thus alone with conscious meaning wear The Indian's moccasin!

The seal and guerdon of wealth untold We clasp in the wild marsh marigold.

Death in the wood,— In the death-pale lips apart; Death in a whiteness that curdled the blood, Now black to the very heart: The wonder by her was formed Who stands supreme in power;

Nature lies disheveled, pale, With her feverish lips apart,— Day by day the pulses fail, Nearer to her bounding heart; Yet that slackened grasp doth hold Store of pure and genuine gold;

Skirting the rocks at the forest edge With a running flame from ledge to ledge, Or swaying deeper in shadowy glooms, A smoldering fire in her dusky blooms; Bronzed and molded by wind and sun, Maddening, gladdening every one

Pure and perfect, sweet arbutus Twines her rosy-tinted wreath.

The starry, fragile windflower, Poised above in airy grace, Virgin white, suffused with blushes, Shyly droops her lovely face.

Thy subtle charm is strangely given, My fancy will not let thee be, , Then poise not thus 'twixt earth and heaven, O white anemone!