The Sylvan,—­through troops of the trees,
Whose clamorous clans with gnarly bosoms keep hurling
Themselves on the guns of the wind,—­goes wheeling and whirling. 
The Nymph, of the waves’ exultation upheld, her green tresses
Knotted with flowers of the hollow white foam, dives screaming;
Then bounds to the arms of the storm, who boisterously presses
Her hair and wild form to his breast that is panting and streaming. 
The Sylvan,—­hard-pressed by the wind, the Pan-footed air,—­
On the violent backs of the hills,—­
Like a flame that tosses and thrills
From peak to peak when the world of spirits is out,—­
Is borne, as her rapture wills,
With glittering gesture and shout: 
Now here in the darkness, now there,
From the rain-like sweep of her hair,—­
Bewilderingly volleyed o’er eyes and o’er lips,—­
To the lambent swell of her limbs, her breasts and her hips,
She flashes her beautiful nakedness out in the glare
Of the tempest that bears her away,—­
That bears me away! 
Away, over forest and foam, over tree and spray,
Far swifter than thought, far swifter than sound or than flame. 
Over ocean and pine,
In arms of tumultuous shadow and shine ... 
Though Sylvan and Nymph do not
Exist, and only what
Of terror and beauty I feel and I name
As parts of the storm, the awe and the rapture divine
That here in the tempest are mine,—­
The two are the same, the two are forever the same.

II

CALM

Beautiful-bosomed, O night, in thy noon
Move with majesty onward! bearing, as lightly
As a singer may bear the notes of an exquisite tune,
The stars and the moon
Through the clerestories high of the heaven, the firmament’s halls;
Under whose sapphirine walls,
June, hesperian June,
Robed in divinity wanders.  Daily and nightly
The turquoise touch of her robe, that the violets star,
The silvery fall of her feet, that lilies are,
Fill the land with languorous light and perfume.—­
Is it the melody mute of burgeoning leaf and of bloom? 
The music of Nature, that silently shapes in the gloom
Immaterial hosts
Of spirits that have the flowers and leaves in their keep,
That I hear, that I hear? 
Invisible ghosts,—­
Who whisper in leaves and glimmer in blossoms and hover
In color and fragrance and loveliness, breathed from the deep
World-soul of the mother,
Nature;—­who, over and over,
Both sweetheart and lover,
Goes singing her songs from one sweet month to the other,—­
That appear, that appear? 
In forest and field, on hill-land and lea,
As crystallized harmony,
Materialized melody,
An uttered essence peopling far and near
The hyaline atmosphere?... 
Behold how it sprouts from the grass and blooms from flower and tree! 
In waves of diaphanous moonlight and mist,