Hush now, O wooded hill of the Dryads!
Hush your leaping Down from the rocks,
ye fountains! Hush, myriad-bleating ewes!
For along his reeden pipe
now Pan Himself is sweeping His supple lip
to waken the sweet cry of the Muse;
And with feet untired for dancing,
about him gathered gleam
The Dryads from the forest,
the Naiads from the stream.