What misery most drowningly doth sing In lone Endymion's ear, now he has caught The goal of consciousness? Ah, 'tis the thought, The deadly feel of solitude: for lo! He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-pil'd, The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west, Like herded elephants; nor felt, nor prest 290 Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air; But far from such companionship to wear An unknown time, surcharg'd with grief, away, Was now his lot. And must he patient stay, Tracing fantastic figures with his spear? "No!" exclaimed he, "why should I tarry here?" No! loudly echoed times innumerable. At which he straightway started, and 'gan tell His paces back into the temple's chief; Warming and growing strong in the belief 300 Of help from Dian: so that when again He caught her airy form, thus did he plain, Moving more near the while. "O Haunter chaste Of river sides, and woods, and heathy waste, Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen Art thou now forested? O woodland Queen, What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos? Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos Of thy disparted nymphs? Through what dark tree Glimmers thy crescent? Wheresoe'er it be, 310 'Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost taste Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost waste Thy loveliness in dismal elements; But, finding in our green earth sweet contents, There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee It feels Elysian, how rich to me, An exil'd mortal, sounds its pleasant name! Within my breast there lives a choking flame-- O let me cool it among the zephyr-boughs! A homeward fever parches up my tongue-- 320 O let me slake it at the running springs! Upon my car a noisy nothing rings-- O let me once more hear the linnet's note! Before mine eyes thick films and shadows float-- O let me 'noint them with the heaven's light! Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white? O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice! Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry-juice? O think how this dry palate would rejoice! If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice, 330 O think how I should love a bed of flowers!-- Young goddess! let me see my native bowers! Deliver me from this rapacious deep!"