THE FAUN 211 



The tree bore his fruit in the midsummer glow. 

 Said the child, "May I gather thy berries now?" 



"Yes; all thou canst see; 



Take them; all are for thee," 

 Said the tree, while he bent down his laden boughs 

 low. 



FROM 



THE FAUN* 



BY RICHARD HOVEY 



HIST! there's a stir in the brush. 

 Was it a face through the leaves? 

 Back of the laurels a scurry and rush 

 Hillward, then silence, except for the thrush 

 That throws one song from the dark of the bush 

 And is gone; and I plunge in the wood, and the 



swift soul cleaves 



Through the swirl and the flow of the leaves, 

 As a swimmer stands with his white limbs 



bare to the sun 

 For the space that a breath is held, and drops in 



the sea; 

 And the undulant woodland folds round me, intimate 



fluctuant, free, 

 Like the clasp and the cling of waters, and the 



reach and the effort is done; 

 There is only the glory of living, exultant to be. 



*Copyright by Small, Maynard & Co. Used by permission of 

 the present publishers, Duffield & Co. 



