No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light For others, good or bad, hatred and Are those swift moments? Whither are they fled ? I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed see, Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be; What a calm round of hours shall make my days. There is a paly flame of hope that plays Where'er I look: but yet, I'll say 't is naught. And here I bid it die. Have not I caught, So fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered, Endymion sought around, and shook each bed Of covert flowers in vain; and then he flung Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue, What whisperer, disturb'd his gloomy rest? It was a nymph uprisen to the breast In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood brood. Hereat she vanish'd from Endymion's gaze, Who brooded o'er the water in amaze: The dashing fount pour'd on, and where its pool Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool, Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still, And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer, 'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down; And, while beneath the evening's sleepy 100 To him her dripping hand she softly kist, Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the ruth, The bitterness of love: too long indeed, Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer All the bright riches of my crystal coffer To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion - tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze; Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws A virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sands, Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far lands By my diligent springs: my level lilies, shells, |