With sound like Hermes’ wing—
Of nectarous draughts and deep,
Wooing the gods asleep,
What time the crystal honey-dews of heaven weep.
“We sing, we sing,
The sweet lyre fingering
Till windless woodlands ring;
How rich the lofty chime,
When gods converse in rhyme,
And far Olympian peaks reëcho all the time.