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Home  »  An American Anthology, 1787–1900  »  1309 Tacita

Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By James BenjaminKenyon

1309 Tacita

SHE roves through shadowy solitudes,

Where scentless herbs and fragile flowers

Pine in the gloom that ever broods

Around her sylvan bowers.

No winds amid the branches sigh,

No football wakes the sodden ground;

And the cold streams that hurry by

Flow on without a sound.

Strange, voiceless birds from spray to spray

Flit silently; and all day long

The dancing midges round her play,

But sing no elfin song.

The haunting twilight ebbs and flows;

Chill is the night, wan is the morn;

Through this dim wood no minstrel goes,

No hunter winds his horn.

No panting stag seeks yon dark pool;

No shepherd calls his bleating sheep

From sunburnt meads to shadows cool,

And grasses green and deep.

Across her path, from reed to reed,

The spider weaves his gossamer;

She recks not where her footsteps lead,

The world is dead to her.

Her eyes are sad, her face is pale,

Her head droops sidewise wearily;

Her dusky tresses, like a veil,

Down ripple to her knee.

How many a cycle hath she trod

Each mossy aisle, each leafy dell!

Alas, her feet with silence shod

Ne’er flee the hateful spell!