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--