Till I have bathed in mountain-born Scamander.”
So said, unfilleting his purple chlamys
And putting down his urn, he stood a moment,
Breathing the faint, warm odor of the blossoms
That spangled thick the green Dardanian meadows.
Then, stooping lightly, loosened he his buskins
And felt with shrinking feet the crispy verdure,
Naked, save one light robe, that from his shoulder
Hung to his knee, the youthful flush revealing
Of warm, white limbs, half-nerved with coming manhood,