THE little spirit of the place Glides, spirit-like, over the grass; She is five years old, five years, alas! Beauty runs in the hour-glass. She has a kirtle, straight and sweet, Of the spring's green as it is meet, And delicate, bare, dew-dabbled feet; Her hair of the squirrel red is it. Her eyes are of the squirrel red, Freckles, like golden drops, are shed On the milk skin; her face is made A little moon in her hair's shade. Her orchard goes in flower and fruit; At night the nightingale comes to it, The thrush and the blackbird call their suit Ere ever the nightingale is mute. Adown the pale green avenues Spring scatters her whites and blues. The little feet amid the dews Have a queen's carpet for their use. The place is holy and the hour, And only gentle things have power; The honeysuckle falls in a shower, The wind ruffles the wind-flower. The little spirit, still and wise, Steals through the evening mysteries, Shadow and silence in her eyes. The night has frankincense and spice. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PROVING by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A CORONAL by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS ACCOUNTABILITY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD by THOMAS GRAY TWILIGHT by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE |