Musing a space he stood, a light smile playing Upon his face—a spirit new-created To the free air and all-embracing sunlight. He saw his glorious limbs reversely mirrored In the still wave, and stretched his foot to press it On the smooth sole that answered at the surface: Alas! the shape dissolved in glimmering fragments. Then, timidly at first, he dipped, and catching Quick breath, with tingling shudder, as the waters Swirled round his thighs, and deeper, slowly deeper, Till on his breast the River’s cheek was pillowed, And deeper still, till every shoreward ripple Talked in his ear, and like a cygnet’s bosom His white, round shoulder shed the dripping crystal. There, as he floated, with a rapturous motion, The lucid coolness folding close around him, The lily-cradling ripples murmured: “Hylas!” He shook from off his ears the hyacinthine Curls, that had lain unwet upon the water, And still the ripples murmured: “Hylas! Hylas!” He thought: “the voices are but ear-born music. Pan dwells not here, and Echo still is calling From some high cliff that tops a Thracian valley: So long mine ears, on tumbling Hellespontos, Have heard the sea-waves hammer Argo’s forehead, That I misdeem the fluting of this current For some lost nymph”—again the murmur: “Hylas!” And with the sound a cold, smooth arm around him Slid like a wave, and down the clear, green darkness Glimmered on either side a shining bosom— Glimmered, uprising slow; and ever closer Wound the cold arms, till, climbing to his shoulders, Their cheeks lay nestled, while the purple tangles Their loose hair made, in silken mesh enwound him. Their eyes of clear, pale emerald then uplifting, They kissed his neck with lips of humid coral, And once again there came a murmur: “Hylas! O come with us, O follow where we wander Deep down beneath the green, translucent ceiling— Where on the sandy bed of old Scamander With cool white buds we braid our purple tresses, Lulled by the bubbling waves around us stealing. Thou fair Greek boy, O come with us! O follow Where thou no more shalt hear Propontis riot, But by our arms be lapped in endless quiet, Within the glimmering caves of Ocean hollow! We have no love; alone, of all th’ Immortals, We have no love. O love us, we who press thee With faithful arms, though cold—whose lips caress thee— Who hold thy beauty prisoned. Love us, Hylas!” The sound dissolved in liquid murmurs, calling Still as it faded: “Come with us, O follow!” The boy grew chill to feel their twining pressure Lock round his limbs, and bear him, vainly striving, Down from the noonday brightness. “Leave me, Naiads! Leave me!” he cried; “the day to me is dearer