Луиза Имоджен Гвини (Louise Imogen Guiney)

Hylas

JAR in arm, they bade him rove
Thro’ the alder’s long alcove,
Where the hid spring musically
Gushes to the ample valley.
(There ’s a bird on the under bough
Fluting evermore and now:
“Keep--young!” but who knows how?)

Down the woodland corridor,
Odors deepened more and more;
Blossomed dogwood, in the briers,
Struck her faint delicious fires;
Miles of April passed between
Crevices of closing green,
And the moth, the violet-lover,
By the wellside saw him hover.

Ah, the slippery sylvan dark!
Never after shall he mark
Noisy ploughmen drinking, drinking,
On his drownèd cheek down-sinking;
Quit of serving is that wild,
Absent, and bewitchèd child,
Unto action, age, and danger,
Thrice a thousand years a stranger.

Fathoms low, the naiads sing
In a birthday welcoming;
Water-white their breasts, and o’er him,
Water-gray, their eyes adore him.
(There ’s a bird on the under bough
Fluting evermore and now:
“Keep--young!” but who knows how?)