The riotous bands of the rocks,

That face with a roar the shouting charge of the seas.

The Sylvan,—through troops of the trees,

Whose clamorous clans with gnarly bosoms keep hurling

Themselves on the guns of the wind,—goes wheeling and whirling.

The Nymph, of the waves' exultation upheld, her green tresses

Knotted with flowers of the hollow white foam, dives screaming;

Then bounds to the arms of the storm, who boisterously presses

Her hair and wild form to his breast that is panting and streaming.

The Sylvan,—hard-pressed by the wind, the Pan-footed air,—

On the violent backs of the hills,—

Like a flame that tosses and thrills

From peak to peak when the world of spirits is out,—

Is borne, as her rapture wills,

With glittering gesture and shout:

Now here in the darkness, now there,

From the rain-like sweep of her hair,—

Bewilderingly volleyed o'er eyes and o'er lips,—

To the lambent swell of her limbs, her breasts and her hips,

She flashes her beautiful nakedness out in the glare

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