Still moaned the humid lips, between their kisses;
“We have no love. O love us, we who press thee!”
And came in answer, thus, the words of Hylas:
“My love is mortal. For the Argive maidens
I keep the kisses which your lips would ravish,
Unlock your cold, white arms—take from my shoulder
The tangled swell of your bewildering tresses.
Let me return: the wind comes down from Ida,
And soon the galley, stirring from her slumber,
Will fret to ride where Pelion’s twilight shadow