So said, unfilleting his purple chlamys And putting down his urn, he stood a moment, Breathing the faint, warm odor of the blossoms That spangled thick the green Dardanian meadows. Then, stooping lightly, loosened he his buskins And felt with shrinking feet the crispy verdure, Naked, save one light robe, that from his shoulder Hung to his knee, the youthful flush revealing Of warm, white limbs, half-nerved with coming manhood, Yet fair and smooth with tenderness of beauty. Now to the river’s sandy marge advancing, He dropped the robe and raised his head exulting In the clear sunshine, that with beam embracing Held him against Apollo’s glowing bosom. For sacred to Latona’s son is Beauty, Sacred is Youth, the joy of youthful feeling. A joy indeed, a living joy was Hylas, Whence Jove-begotten Hêraclês, the mighty, That slew the dreaded boar of Erymanthus, To men though terrible, to him was gentle, Smoothing his rugged nature into laughter When the boy stole his club, or from his shoulders Dragged the huge paws of the Nemæan lion. The thick, brown locks, tossed backward from his forehead, Fell soft about his temples; manhood’s blossom Not yet had sprouted on his chin, but freshly Curved the fair cheek, and full the red lip’s parting, Like a loose bow, that just has launched its arrow; His large blue eyes, with joy dilate and beamy, Were clear as the unshadowed Grecian heaven; Dewy and sleek his dimpled shoulder rounded To the white arms and whiter breast between them. Downward, the supple lines had less of softness: His back was like a god’s; his loins were moulded As if some pulse of power began to waken; The springy fullness of his thighs, outswerving, Sloped to his knee, and lightly dropping downward, Drew the curved lines that breathe, in rest, of motion.