Of distant lawns about their fountain cold,
A living whiteness stirs like a lazy wave,
And at the first slow notes my panpipes gave
These flocking swans, these naiads rather, fly
Or dive.
Noon burns inert and tawny-dry,
Nor marks how clean that Hymen slipped away
From me who seek in song the real A.
Wake, then, to your first ardour and the sight,
O lonely faun, of the old fierce white light,