WITH breath of thyme and bees that hum, 
Across the years you seem to come,? 
 Across the years with nymph-like head, 
 And wind-blown brows unfilleted; 
A girlish shape that slips the bud 
 In lines of unspoiled symmetry; 
A girlish shape that stirs the blood 
 With pulse of Spring, Autonoe! 
 
Where?er you pass,?where?er you go, 
I hear the pebbly rillet flow;
 Where?er you go,?where?er you pass, 
 There comes a gladness on the grass; 
You bring blithe airs where?er you tread,? 
 Blithe airs that blow from down and sea; 
You wake in me a Pan not dead,?
 Not wholly dead!?Autonoe! 
 
How sweet with you on some green sod 
To wreathe the rustic garden-god; 
 How sweet beneath the chestnut?s shade 
 With you to weave a basket-braid;
To watch across the stricken chords 
 Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee; 
To woo you in soft woodland words, 
 With woodland pipe, Autonoe! 
 
In vain,?in vain! The years divide:
Where Thames rolls a murky tide, 
 I sit and fill my painful reams, 
 And see you only in my dreams;? 
A vision, like Alcestis, brought 
 From under-lands of Memory,? 
A dream of Form in days of Thought,? 
 A dream,?a dream, Autonoe!