She would not lift her lips to take a kiss,
Or ever lift her eyes to take a smile.
She was a pool the winter paves with ice,
That the wild hunter in the hills must leave
With thirst unslaked in the brief southward sun.
Ah, Dica, it is not for thee I go.
And not for Phaon, tho’ his ship lifts sail
Here in the windless harbor, for the south.
Oh, darkling deities that guard the Nile,
Watch over one whose gods are far away;