My Dryad Hath Her Hiding Place Among Ten Thousand Trees. She Flies To Cover At Step Of A Lover, And Where To Find Her Lovely Face Only The Woodland Bees Ever Discover, Bringing Her Honey From Meadows Sunny, Cowslip And Clover. Vainly On Beech And Oak I Knock Amid The Silent Boughs; Then Hear Her Laughter, The Moment After, Making Of Me Her Laughing-Stock Within Her Hidden House. The Young Moon With Her Wand Of Pearl Taps On Her Hidden Door, Bids Her Beauty Flower In That Woodland Bower, All White Like A Mortal Girl, With Moonshine Hallowed O'Er. Yet Were There Thrice Ten Thousand Trees To Hide Her Face From Me, Not All Her Fleeing Should 'Scape My Seeing, Nor All Her Ambushed Sorceries Secure Concealment Be For Her Bright Being. Yea! Should She By The Laddered Pine Steal To The Stars On High, Her Fairy Whiteness, Hidden In Brightness, Her Hiding-Place Would So Out-Shine The Constellated Sky, She Could Not 'Scape The Eye Of My Pursuing, Nor Her Fawn-Foot Lightness Out-Speed My Wooing.