A Sicilian Night

Come, stand we here within this cactus-brake,
And let the leafy tangle cloak us round:
It is the spot whereof the Seer spake —
To nymph and faun a nightly trysting-ground.
How still the scene! No zephyr stirs to shake
The listening air. The trees are slumber-bound
In soft repose. There's not a bird awake
To witch the silence with a silver sound.
Now haply shall the vision trance our eyes,
By heedless mortals all too rarely scanned,
Of mystic maidens in immortal guise,
Who mingle shadowy hand with shadowy hand,
And, moving o'er the lilies circle-wise,
Beat out with naked feet a saraband.