When ye have bathed your limbs from morn till eve,
Flying at midnight to the bare-topt hills,
Beneath the stars your mazy dances weave,
Say, my deserter whom ye well may know
By his small wings, his quiver, and his bow,
Say, have ye seen my love, whose loss I grieve?
6
Till climb’d one evening on a rocky steep
Above the plain of Cisamos, that lay,
Robb’d of its golden harvest, in the deep