Wreathed with starry clematis these tread the grassy spaces
When the moon sails up beyond the highest screening tree,
All the forest dances, and the furthest hidden places
Are astir with beauty—but we may not often see.
When came they to harbour here, the shy folk peering, flying?
Long before our coast showed blue to Poncé de León
Pan beheld a vision of an empty kingdom lying
Waiting—and he led them past the seas to claim his own.