(For my dearest
dryad)
Hark! Hear you that
faint rustling sound?
The Spirit of the
Forest treads ‘pon this ground.
Pay close watch and
you perhaps might see
Her nimble form
frolicking in yon tree.
With a dance in her
gait
And a gleam in her
eye,
She swings from the
branches
Ever-so spry.
And when the night
falls
And the moon strikes
her glade,
Quiet she is
But seldom afraid.
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