But the old, the fading shepherdess, Aristonoe, Rises stiffly and walks alone Down the broad path where densely the laurels grow, And over a little lawn, not closely mown, Where wave the flowering grass and the rich meadowsweet. She seems to walk painfully now and slow, And drags a little on her high-heeled feet. She stops at last below An old and twisted plum-tree, whose last petal is gone, Leans on the comfortable, rugged bole, And stares through the green leaves at the drooping sun. The tree and the warm light comfort her ageing soul. On the other lawn behind her, out of sight, The girls at play Drive out melancholy by lively delight, And the wind carries their songs and laughter away. Some begin dancing and seriously tread A modern measure up and down the grass, Turn, slide with bending knees, and pass With dipping hand and poising head, Float through the sun in pairs, like newly shed And golden leaves astray Upon the warm wind of an autumn day, When the Indian summer rules the air. Others, having found, Lying idly on the sun-hot ground, Shuttlecocks and battledores, Play with the buoyant feathers and stare Dazzled at the plaything as it soars, Vague against the shining sky, Where light yet throbs and confuses the eye, Then see it again, white and clear, As slowly, poisedly it falls by The dark green foliage and floats near. But Celia, apart, is pensive and must sigh, And Anais but faintly pursues the game. An encroaching, inner flame Burns in their hearts with the acrid smoke of unrest; But gaiety runs like quicksilver in Rose's breast, And Phillis, rising, Walks by herself with high and springy tread, All her young blood racing from heels to head, Breeding new desires and a new surprising Strength and determination, Whereof are bred Confidence and joy and exultation. The long day closes; Rosalind's hour draws near, and Chloe's and Rose's, The hour that Celia has prayed, The hour for which Anais and Stella have stayed, When Helen shall forget her wit, And Phillida by a sure arrow at length be hit, And Phillis, the fleet runner, be at length overtaken; When this bough of young blossoms By the rough, eager gatherers shall be shaken. Their eyes grow dim, Their hearts flutter like taken birds in their bosoms, As the light dies out of heaven, And a faint, delicious tremor runs through every limb, And faster the volatile blood through their veins is driven.