There is an instinct in the human heart
Which makes that all the fables it hath coined,
To justify the reign of its belief
And strengthen it by beauty’s right divine,
Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift,
Which, like the hazel twig, in faithful hands,
Points surely to the hidden springs of truth. 
For, as in nature naught is made in vain, 20
But all things have within their hull of use
A wisdom and a meaning which may speak
Of spiritual secrets to the ear
Of spirit; so, in whatsoe’er the heart
Hath fashioned for a solace to itself,
To make its inspirations suit its creed,
And from the niggard hands of falsehood wring
Its needful food of truth, there ever is
A sympathy with Nature, which reveals,
Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light 30
And earnest parables of inward lore. 
Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece,
As full of gracious youth, and beauty still
As the immortal freshness of that grace
Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze.

A youth named Rhoecus, wandering in the wood,
Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall,
And, feeling pity of so fair a tree,
He propped its gray trunk with admiring care,
And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on. 40
But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind
That murmured ‘Rhoecus!’ ’Twas as if the leaves,
Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it,
And, while he paused bewildered, yet again
It murmured ‘Rhoecus!’ softer than a breeze. 
He started and beheld with dizzy eyes
What seemed the substance of a happy dream
Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow
Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak. 
It seemed a woman’s shape, yet far too fair 50
To be a woman, and with eyes too meek
For any that were wont to mate with gods. 
All naked like a goddess stood she there,
And like a goddess all too beautiful
To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame. 
‘Rhoecus, I am the Dryad of this tree,’
Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words
Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew,
’And with it I am doomed to live and die;
The rain and sunshine are my caterers, 60
Nor have I other bliss than simple life;
Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can give,
And with a thankful joy it shall be thine.’

Then Rhoecus, with a flutter at the heart,
Yet by the prompting of such beauty bold,
Answered:  ’What is there that can satisfy
The endless craving of the soul but love? 
Give me thy love, or but the hope of that
Which must be evermore my nature’s goal.’ 
After a little pause she said again,
But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, 71
’I give it, Rhoecus, though a perilous gift;
An hour before the sunset meet me here.’ 
And straightway there was nothing he could see
But the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak,
And not a sound came to his straining ears
But the low trickling rustle of the leaves,
And far away upon an emerald slope
The falter of an idle shepherd’s pipe.