Or find a pathway not so dim;
For still the maid’s gigantic form
Would pass between the sun and him.
“This must not be,” said little Love,
“The sun was made for more than you.”
So, turning down a myrtle grove,
He bade the portly nymph “Adieu.”
Now gaily roves the laughing boy
O’er many a mead, through many a bower,
In every breeze inhaling joy,