He fills me with such wonder and despair!
I long to kiss thy locks, so golden bright,
As he doth kiss the tresses of the sun.
Oh! bid me sing to thee, my chosen one,
And do thou teach me, Love, to sing aright!
II.
VISIONS.
The Poet meets Apollo on the hill,
And Pan and Flora and the Paphian Queen,
And infant naïads bathing in the rill,