And stretched inviting arms; the aspens wooed
With myriad beckoning leaves, and each slant beam,
Flung from the flying sun-god’s hand, did seem
A rosy finger-tip that coyly pointed
To some deep trysting-place by wood-nymphs haunted.
Long vistas led away mysteriously,
So tempting that I almost thought to see
Arch faces from the nearer branches peeping,
And clumsy satyrs in the distance leaping.
The nymph, the satyr, and the bounding fawn