Where that pure crystal makes thy morning bath
A white tent glimmered. Round it, rank on rank,
The crimson oleanders veiled the path,
And bent or rose, as swelled the breeze or sank.
I entered not. Beside that river's brim
I sat. Thy fawn, with trailing cord, drew near:
When from my knee its head it lifted, dim
Seemed those dark eyes, by day so large and clear.
Go back, poor fawn, and house thee with thy kind!
Where, amid rocks and mountains cold with snow,