That filled the groves of Thessaly are gone.
The merry train that circled Oberon
Trip it no more upon the moonlit lawn.
But let them pass nor mourn the solitude:
Far sweeter than the whole fantastic brood
Is one weak, loving woman’s human form.
A woman’s voice, low, tremulous, and warm,
Hath a more potent spell to lull the charm
Than Orphean lute, or siren’s song, where passed
The wave-worn mariner lashed to his mast.