Oft do we meet the Oread whose eyes
Are dew-drops where twin heavens shine confessed;
She, all the maiden modesty's surprise
Blushing her temples,—to deep loins and breast
Tempestuous, brown bewildering tresses pressed,—
Stands one scared moment's moiety, in wise
Of some delicious dream, then shrinks distressed,
Like some weak wind that, haply heard, is gone,
In rapport with shy Silence to make sound;
So, like storm sunlight, bares clean limbs to bound