哦，你，当荷尔达离开她的冬之山，踏上追寻六月的旅程时，黑橡树带着绿宝石般的光芒，随着她神奇的曲调颤栗地闪烁着。黎明时分，森林颤抖，所有隐蔽的林间空地苏醒;然后，阳光照亮了乳白色的薄雾，轻柔摇曳的树枝沿着薄雾的边缘编织出传说的声音，吸引着人们，飘来飘去，向那迷人的土地蜿蜒而行，在那里，在月光的照耀下，水蒸气整夜被照亮，而黑色的树林里，由于妖精的恐惧，大片的雪花在苍白的草地上闪烁，直到附近的早晨响起刺耳的声音。噢,在甜蜜的,冒险的魅力绿色,最后•菲尔的长矛,寻找失去的水女神的眼睛湛蓝上面残留的蓝色的冷流到她的感叹,哦,或许从那悲伤的梦想吸引她,笑着,太阳和高兴蓝色似乎流远,浸渍分支升降横的他们soft-throng叶缓慢而薄cloud-fleecelets缓慢漂移。噢，在那里，让夏日沉睡在暮色中幽香扑鼻的巢穴里，沉醉在森林女巫发丝里的金色露珠的喜悦中;同时，在半遮半掩的眼睛里，感到黄色的日光已经暗淡，很少像飞蛾一样飘动，落在光秃秃的枝头上;或者在庄严的秋天里，在阴燃的辉煌中笼罩，感到那颗金色的心被遗忘的智慧迷住了，在一个知识的庄严时刻，在荣耀思考它的灭亡的时候，红色的八月的心充满了疯狂的欲望和痛苦。当枝叶凋零，寂静凿出银色的白霜，在古老的壁炉上，带着暗淡的脸，去梦见消逝的森林盛年，春日的甜蜜和六月的欢乐，现在比寒风吹冷了使早晨明亮的露珠，荷尔达睡在她的山下更珍贵。如果外面的天在这里不厚颜无耻，不粗鲁无礼，早晨的纯真在这里消失了:这绿色的不间断的黄昏以新鲜的姿态证明了它的存在，在这里，幽暗的乳房裸露着，她的猜想，她的冷露的目光在逃避?除了这讥笑着愚蠢的恐惧的责备以外:木语，在它无言的心里，有一种庄严的喜悦，它知道宁静这个保守的名字。不要开始，如果路上有半兽人的身影翻滚; it is but children: lo, the wrath couchant, heraldic, of her beasts that pierce with ivory single horn whate'er misplaced outrageous nears, or whinny of the fierce Centaur, or mailed miscreant unchaste. II O friendly shades, where anciently I grew! me entering at dawn a child ye knew, all little welcoming leaves, and jealous wove your roof of lucid emerald above, that scarce therethro' the envious sun might stray, save smiling dusk or, lure for idle play, such glancing finger your chance whim allows, all that long forenoon of the tuneful boughs; which growing on, the myriad small noise and flitting of the wood-life's busy joys, thro' tenuous weft of sound, had left, divined, the impending threat of silence, clear, behind: and, noon now past, that hush descended large in the wood's heart, and caught me in its marge of luminous foreboding widely flung; so hourlong I have stray'd, and tho' among the glimpsing lures of all green aisles delays that revelation of its wondrous gaze, yet am I glad to wander, glad to seek and find not, so the gather'd tufts bespeak, naked, reclined, its friendly neighbourhood ? as in this hollow of the rarer wood where, listening, in the cool glen-shade, with me, white-bloom'd and quiet, stands a single tree; rich spilth of gold is on the eastward rise; westward the violet gloom eludes mine eyes. This is the house of Pan, not whom blind craze and babbling wood-wits tell, where bare flints blaze, noon-tide terrific with the single shout, but whom behind each bole sly-peering out the traveller knows, but turning, disappear'd with chuckle of laughter in his thicket-beard, and rustle of scurrying faun-feet where the ground each autumn deeper feels its yellow mound. Onward: and lo, at length, the secret glade, soft-gleaming grey, what time the grey trunks fade in the white vapours o'er its further rim. 'Tis no more time to linger: now more dim the woods are throng'd to ward the haunted spot where, as I turn my homeward face, I wot the nymphs of twilight have resumed, unheard, their glimmering dance upon the glimmering sward. III The point of noon is past, outside: light is asleep; brooding upon its perfect hour: the woods are deep and solemn, f