Where the dance is sweeping, Through the greensward peeping,
Shall the soft lights start; Laughing maids, unstaying, Deeming it trick-playing, High their robes upswaying,
O'er the lights shall dart; And the woodland haunter Shall not cease to saunter
When, far down some glade, Of the great world's burning, One soft flame upturning Seems, to his dit-ccrning,
Crocus in the shade.
755 Epta'ph of Dionysia
HERE doth Dionysia lie: She whose little wanton foot Tripping (ah, too carelessly')
Touch'd this tomb and fell into 't.
��Dionysia, o'er this tomb,
Where thy buried beauties be,
From their dust shall spring and bloom Loves and graces like to thee.