The May-tree stands on a hill
Stands in the night
So fragrant and so still,
So dusky white

That, stealing from the wood
In that sweet air,
You'd think Diana stood
Before you there.

If it be so, her bloom
Trembles with bliss.
She waits across the gloom
Her shepherd's kiss.

Touch her. A bird will start
From those pure snows,--
The dark and fluttering heart
Endymion knows.

Alfred Noyes