Transformation

It is the time when, by the forest falls,
  The touchmenots hang fairy folly-caps;
  When ferns and flowers fill the lichened laps
  Of rocks with color, rich as orient shawls:
  And in my heart I hear a voice that calls
  Me woodward, where the Hamadryad wraps
  Her limbs in bark, or, bubbling in the saps,
  Laughs the sweet Greek of Pan's old madrigals.
  There is a gleam that lures me up the stream--
  A Naiad swimming with wet limbs of light?
  Perfume, that leads me on from dream to dream--
  An Oread's footprints fragrant with her flight?
  And, lo! meseems I am a Faun again,
  Part of the myths that I pursue in vain.