Nymphs

Where are ye now, O beautiful girls of the mountain,

     Oreads all ?

Nothing at all stirs here save the drip of the fountain;

     Answers our call

Only the heart-glad thrush, in the Vale of Thrushes;

     Stirs in the brake

But the dew-bright ear of the hare in his couch of rushes

     Listening, awake.