I know a place where waterfalls will dance:
Will from the cliff-side step, to take your hand,
With tinkling footstep, glide across the sand,
And share with you the blush of first romance.
But when the moon has set, they’ll dance no more,
With bow or curtsey clear, say night is done,
Return, against the cliff again to run,
And leave you standing lonely on the shore.
Some later night, you might well ask again.
Beseech the water with an offered arm,
But now the lake is lifeless in its calm.
Whatever loved you once does not remain.
No single nymph can more than once appear:
The flowing water differs every year.
Jenkins Rising 