Weaving with the grape-breathed wind,
Restless swallows called and flew.
Dropped the rose-flushed doves and hung
On the fountains' murmuring brims;
To the bronzed vine Hermos clung—
Silver-like his naked limbs
Flashed and flushed: rich coppered leaves,
Whitened by his ruddy hair;
Pallid as the marble eaves,
Awed he met the Helot's stare.