sonnet xii - Popular Poems and stories from category

Like as a dryad, from her native bole Coming at dusk, when the dim stars emerge,
To a slow river at whose silent verge Tall poplars tremble and deep grasses roll,
Come thou no less and, kneeling in a shoal Of the freaked flag and meadow ...

As the lone, frighted user of a
Suddenly turns round, nothing to detect,
Yet on his fear's sense keepeth still the
Of that brink-nothing he doth but suspect;