While all the forest, witched with slumberous moonshine,
Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence;
Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse suspended—
I hear afar thy whispering, gleamy islands,
And track thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung silence.
Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet,
Thy foliage, like the tresses of a Dryad,
Dripping about thy slim white stem, whose shadow
Slopes quivering down the water’s dusky quiet,
Thou shrink’st, as on her bath’s edge would some strolled Dryad.