He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers,
And how the goddesses came down to men:
He missed the pathway, he forgot the hours,
And when he looked upon his watch again,
He found how much old Time had been a winner—
He also found that he had lost his dinner.
XCV.
Sometimes he turned to gaze upon his book,
Boscan,[55] or Garcilasso;[56]—by the wind
Even as the page is rustled while we look,