To wandering flock and ploughworn steer
Thou givest waters fresh and cool.
Thee, too, 'mong storied founts I'll place,
Singing the oak that slants the steep,
Above the hollowed home of rock
From which thy prattling streamlets leap.
Or who does not live more abundant life at reading the Chloe Ode, with its breath of the mountain air and its sense of the brooding forest solitude, and its exquisite suggestion of timid and charming girlhood?
"You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy
As some stray fawn that seeks its mother
Through trackless woods. If spring-winds sigh,