Iii

Then we may meet the Oread, whose eyes Are dewdrops where twin heavens shine confessed: She, all the maiden modesty's surprise Rosying her temples,--to slim loins and breast Tempestuous, brown, bewildering tresses pressed,-- Shall stand a moment's moiety in wise Of some delicious dream, then shrink, distressed, Like some wild mist that, hardly seen, is gone, Footing the ferny hillside without sound; Or, like storm sunlight, her white limbs shall bound, A thistle's instant, towards a woody rise, A flying glimmer o'er the dew-drenched lawn.