Classic Poem

A wood-nymph art thou by thy name,
Or, not less fair, a forest maid,
Like her who played in Arden's shade
A part in love's immortal game.

Which if thou play, or not, still thine
The witchery of the poet's spell,
The freshness of the forest dell,
The fragrance of the fir and pine.

The laughter of the brook that ran
Past the gnarled oak where Jaques lay
And mused on what he called a play
In seven acts—the Life of Man.

And now, O wonder! comes to me,
In this my Seventh Age forlorn,
A maid, who, one might swear was born
In Arden or in Arcady.