A VALLEY of oak-trees,
A streamlet between them
As twisted as these ;
Few mortals have seen them,
Or crossed the low bridge
From oak-ridge to oak-ridge.
Why is there a bridge
Where no one can heed it.
Or traveller need it.
Small bridge between small oak-trees ?
The Dryads have homesteads,
And cousins and neighbours :
A Dryad, who weds
With a Faun, often labours
To reach her own folk
In some far away oak ;
For she loves the old folk
Of the glade where she tarried
Before she was married ;
And then on the bridge she treads.
Or one, who with boldness
Is wooed by a satyr.
Her sandals will press
On the boards with the patter
Of leaves in the wind ;
And looking behind,
Half-scared by the wind,
Her face coy and simple
She hides mid her wimple,
And runs in her floating dress.
Thus often and sweetly
The bridge hath united,
Hath helped those who fly,
Hath brought the invited
And sped the late guest.
From east and from west
Pass lover and guest,
While the bridge is unbroken
In the countryside oaken.
And Dryads and Fauns live by.
