Her nude, at bath, like Acteon!
So dire his fate, that one who heard
The flutter of a bathing bird,
What time he crossed a breezy wood,
Felt sudden quickening of his blood;
Cast one swift look, then ran away
Far through the green, thick groves of May;
Afeard, lest down the wind of spring
He’d hear an arrow whispering!
[¹] By permission of “Houghton, Mifflin & Co.”