Wound the cold arms, till, climbing to his shoulders,
Their cheeks lay nestled, while the purple tangles
Their loose hair made, in silken mesh enwound him.
Their eyes of clear, pale emerald then uplifting,
They kissed his neck with lips of humid coral,
And once again there came a murmur: “Hylas!
O come with us, O follow where we wander
Deep down beneath the green, translucent ceiling—
Where on the sandy bed of old Scamander
With cool white buds we braid our purple tresses,