Who Dreams the Dream

Beneath a canopy of green
The Dryad paused to rest
The sunlight nestled in her hair
And drowsed upon her breast
The breeze was soft, the air was warm;
A honeysuckle vine
Entwined itself around her wrist
In fragrant jeweled design.
Her dreams were sweet and innocent,
Of dew and fresh mown hay
And ribbons laced in auburn hair
Where sunset colors play.
And as she slept I saw my face
And woke beneath the tree;
For as I dreamed I watched her there,
The Dryad dreamed of me.