O you who run on this soi-disant terrace!
Laced for show that feigned rectitude
O you who lodge in anaemic palace!
And swelling in a dwindling altitude ...
Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,
And wolves still dread Diana roaming free
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite
When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,
... Read complete poem
