Or Naiad o'er her fountain well?—

Who, with white fingers for her comb,

Sleeks her blue hair, and from its curls

Showers slim minnows and pale pearls,

[26]

And hollow music of the foam.

What is it in the vistaed ways

That leans and springs, and stoops and sways?—

The naked limbs of one who flees?

An Oread who hesitates

Before the Satyr form that waits,

Crouching to leap, that there she sees?

Or under boughs, reclining cool,

A Hamadryad, like a pool

Of moonlight, palely beautiful?

Or Limnad, with her lilied face,

More lovely than the misty lace

That haunts a star and gives it grace?

Or is it some Leimoniad,

In wildwood flowers dimly clad?

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