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.