She stood waist-deep amid the briers; Above in twisted lengths were rolled The sunset's tangled whorls of gold, Blown from the West's mist-fueled fires. A shuddering twilight dashed with gold Down smouldering hills the fierce day fell, And bubbling over star on star The night's blue cisterns 'gan to well, With the dusk crescent of his wings A huge crane cleaves the wealthy West, While up the East a silver breast Of chastity the full moon brings.
For her, I knew, where'er she trod, Each dew-drop raised a limpid glass To flash her beauty from the grass; That wild flowers bloomed along the sod, Or, whisp'ring, murmured when she smiled; The wood-bird hushed to hark her song, Or, all enamored, from his wild Before her feet flew flutt'ring long. The brook droned mystic melodies, Eddied in laughter when she kissed With naked feet its amethyst Of waters stained by blooming trees.
Down silver precipices drawn The red-wine cataracts of dawn Pour soundless torrents wide and far, Deluging each warm, floating star. A sound of winds and brooks and wings, Sweet woodland-fluted carolings, Star radiance dashed on moss and fern, Wet leaves that quiver, breathe, and burn; Wet hills, hung heavily with woods, Dew-drenched and drunken solitudes Faint-murmuring elfin canticles; Sound, light, and spicy boisterous smells, And flowers and buds; tumultuous bees, Wind-wafts and genii of the trees. Thro' briers that trammel, one by one, With swinging pails comes laughing on A troop of youthful berriers, Their wet feet glitt'ring where they pass Thro' dew-drop studded tufts of grass: And oh! their cheers, their merry cheers, Wake Echo on her shrubby rock, Whom dale and mountain answering mock With rapid fairy horns, as if Each mossy hill and weedy cliff Had its imperial Oberon, Who, seeking his Titania hid In bloomy coverts him to shun, In kingly wrath had called and chid.
Cloud-feathers oozing rich with light, Slow trembling in the locks of Night, Her dusky waist with sultry gold Girdled and buckled fold on fold. High stars; a sound of bleating flocks; Gray, burly shadows fall'n 'mid rocks, Like giant curses overthrown By some Arthurian champion; Soft-swimming sorceries of mist Haunting glad glens of amethyst; Low tinklings in dim clover dells Of bland-eyed kine with brazen bells; And where the marsh in reed and grass Burns angry as a shattered glass.