Pan dwells not here, and Echo still is calling
From some high cliff that tops a Thracian valley:
So long mine ears, on tumbling Hellespontos,
Have heard the sea-waves hammer Argo’s forehead,
That I misdeem the fluting of this current
For some lost nymph”—again the murmur: “Hylas!”
And with the sound a cold, smooth arm around him
Slid like a wave, and down the clear, green darkness
Glimmered on either side a shining bosom—
Glimmered, uprising slow; and ever closer