  Behind these falling curtains of the rain, Beauty goes by, a phantom on the hill, A timid fugitive beyond the lane, In rainy silver,—and so shy and still That only peering eyes of some hid bird, Or furry ears that listened by a stone, Could guess at Something neither seen nor heard, Finding escape, and faring by, alone. For eyes like ours, too faint a thing and fleet, Too lightly running for such ears to hear The stealthy going of those weightless feet; No thrilling sight or sound of her comes near, Only the shining grasses where they lie, Give hint of silver slippers hasting by. |
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