The Dryad at timid gaze by the wood-side?
On one up-strain-ed sole from the rock-ledge?
The Nereid tip-toe on the scud o' the surge,
With whistling tresses dank athwart her face,
And all her figure poised in lithe Circean grace?
Have they sighed hence with trailing garment-gem?
Draw your eyes down to me, and dream on them!
A space, and they fleet from me. Must ye fade--