The Rambles of an Idler 



Sitting as I do, I see no trace of recent 

 change and hear no rumble of the passing cars. 

 The quiet of an earlier century pervades, and 

 in a delightful, day-dreamy mood myself, I feel 

 that I have most pleasant company. Here 

 dwells a hamadryad that has a power to charm. 

 There is no disturbing element. Not a harsh 

 sound nor distressful confusion plagues me. 

 The actualities have drifted until all is vague. 

 Dreaming, I am yet awake, and sight, sound, 

 smell, alike aid my senses in their airy flight. 

 The hamadryad is so far real that I enjoy her 

 company. She whispers of pleasant things 

 only, recalling the happy past until it is real 

 again and promising of the future such good 

 things that the delight of anticipation will over- 

 bear the probable shock of promise broken. I 

 would that every oak was blessed with such an 

 attendant. Hamadryad, indeed! Whim of a 

 poet? No, not this one. She is more real, 

 more honest than half the friends we meet. As 

 the devotee approaches the shrine, I came here 

 as I have often done before and never was re- 

 buffed. Here is the only altar I have ever 

 faced. The work-a-day world may scoff at 

 hamadryads. Let it be joined to its fleshly idols 



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