When meadows are grey with the morn 
In the dusk of the woods it is night: 
The oak and the birch and the pine 
War with the glimmer of light. 

Dryads brown as the leaf 
Move in the gloom of the glade; 
When meadows are grey with the morn 
Dim night in the wood has delayed. 

The cocks that crow to the land 
Are faint and hollow and shrill:
Dryads brown as the leaf 
Whisper, and hide, and are still.