Though you turn from heath and hill, we are hard behind,
Singing, ‘Ere the sorrows rise, ere the gates unclose,
Bind above your wistful eyes the memory of the rose.’
• • • •
Now the vintage feast is done, now the melons glow
Gold along the raftered thatch beneath a thread of snow.
Dian’s bugle bids the dawn sweep the upland clear,
Where we snared the silken fawn, where we ran the deer.
Through the dark reeds wet with rain, past the singing foam
Went the light-foot Mysian maids, calling Hylas home.