Sonnet Xiv Poem by Philip Henry Savage

HONEY of woodland wild and of the hill,
The juices of the maple and the cane
And all the fulness of the fallen grain;
The pauses in the running of the rill,
Silence of distant meadows, voices far
Of unseen swallows in the upper air;
The beauty of the bending bough; the rare,
Soft rose, the sunbeam and the melting star —
What are they all but shadows in the night
To thee, where beauty burns a perfect light!
I see thee standing gracefuller than grass,
Naked, with one foot in the lingering stream,
The sun upon thee, perfect! or alas,
Is it not thee, my dryad, but a dream!