And who are these that come across the hill,

Swiftly between the darkening trunks of trees,

Of a long autumn afternoon? Oh, these

Are no maids of flesh - no nymphs or dryads these -

Across the golden hill pale dancers come,

Moving like mist between the pillared trees.

Lightly they leap and fall, and low, one grieves

Among the rocks. Silence, and they have passed.

They are the soft winds, garmented with leaves.