Autcra.
Master, still sad?
Crassus.
These faint and fearful shores
Of time are beaten by the surge of sense,
Love worn away—by love?—to indifference.
Who knows what god—or demon—she adores?
Or in what wood she shelters, or what grove
Sees her profane our sacrament of love?
Aurcta.
I saw her follow
‘The stream in the hollow
Where never Apollo
Abides.
So thick are the trees
That never the breeze
Stirs them, or sees
‘What satyr inhabits the glen, what nymph in the
pools of it hides.
Lighter of foot
Than a syiph or a fairy,
Sinuous, wary,
T passed from the airy
Lawns, where the flute
Of the winds made tremulous music for man.
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