And deeper still, till every shoreward ripple
Talked in his ear, and like a cygnet’s bosom
His white, round shoulder shed the dripping crystal.
There, as he floated, with a rapturous motion,
The lucid coolness folding close around him,
The lily-cradling ripples murmured: “Hylas!”
He shook from off his ears the hyacinthine
Curls, that had lain unwet upon the water,
And still the ripples murmured: “Hylas! Hylas!”
He thought: “the voices are but ear-born music.