Soft, but springing to the tread.

There a youth late met a maid

Running lightly,—oh, so fleetly!

“Whence art thou?” the herd-boy said.

Either side her long hair swayed,

Half a tress and half a braid,

Coloured like the soft dead leaf.

As she answered, laughing sweetly,

On she ran, as flies the swallow;

He could not choose but follow