Then we may meet the Oread, whose eyes
Are dewdrops where twin heavens shine confessed:
She, all the maiden modesty's surprise
Rosying her temples,--to slim loins and breast
Tempestuous, brown, bewildering tresses pressed,--
Shall stand a moment's moiety in wise
Of some delicious dream, then shrink, distressed,
Like some wild mist that, hardly seen, is gone,
Footing the ferny hillside without sound;
Or, like storm sunlight, her white limbs shall bound,
A thistle's instant, towards a woody rise,
A flying glimmer o'er the dew-drenched lawn.