Indian-Pipe

IN the heart of the forest arising,Slim, ghostly, and fair,Ethereal offspring of moisture,Of earth and of air;With slender stems anchored togetherWhere first they uncurl,Each tipped with its exquisite lilyOf mother-of-pearl;Mid the pine-needles, closely enwovenIts roots to embale,—The Indian-pipe of the woodland,Thrice lovely and frail!

Is this but an earth-springing fungus—This darling of FateWhich out of the mouldering darknessSuch light can create?Or is it the spirit of Beauty,Here drawn by love's lureTo give to the forest a somethingUnearthy and pure:To crystallize dewdrop and balsamAnd dryad-lisped wordsAnd starbeam and moonrise and raptureAnd song of wild birds?