If it were a poem, some of it might go like this:
Here the blesséd and haunted old forest,
Whereat the base of a great oak I rest,
While all about lay wondrous deep coverts,
And a green-turfed path that leads o’er a crest.
‘Twas so still you could hear an acorn fall,
And the musical strain of mystic call,
In soft tones flowered upon the silence,
As floating on the surface of the All.
‘Twas that time of morn when the exiled rise,
Thrown to time’s Earthly bondage through the skies,
Being for an hour their own Heavenly selves,
Their full glory unhidden by disguise.
These forest fairies, dryads, nymphs, and fauns,
In spring flash their nude blossoms on the lawns.
She beckons me along, for though the air
I pass thoughts of love, verses and songs.
The life of her face is in her deep blue eyes,
Soft-lipped mouth, and the ears that pointed rise,
As the moon and stars reflect in a pool,
Which look as for a lifetime pours surprise.
I dive into her eyes, her soulful gate,
And worship before her heart’s flaming grate,
Midst flowers in the gardens of her dreams,
Then whirl back up through her eyes as her mate.
I’m left with a feeling that’s no mere spell,
But a fact in Heaven that’s fancy in Hell,
Of elemental affinity’s flame,
Deeper than thought, much older than speech can tell.