Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet As thou thyself, my soul’s idolatry! And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry, For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied. And I will cut a reed by yonder spring And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan Wonder what young intruder dares to sing In these still haunts, where never foot of man Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company. And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan, And why the hapless nightingale forbears To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast, And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east. And I will sing how sad Proserpina Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed, And lure the silver-breasted Helena Back from the lotus meadows of the dead, So shalt thou see that awful loveliness For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war’s abyss! And then I’ll pipe to thee that Grecian tale How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion, And hidden in a grey and misty veil Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace. And if my flute can breathe sweet melody, We may behold Her face who long ago Dwelt among men by the Ægean sea, And whose sad house with pillaged portico And friezeless wall and columns toppled down Looms o’er the ruins of that fair and violet cinctured town. Spirit of Beauty! tarry still awhile, They are not dead, thine ancient votaries; Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile Is better than a thousand victories, Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few Who for thy sake would give their manlihood And consecrate their being; I at least Have done so, made thy lips my daily food, And in thy temples found a goodlier feast Than this starved age can give me, spite of all Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical. Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows, The woods of white Colonos are not here, On our bleak hills the olive never blows, No simple priest conducts his lowing steer Up the steep marble way, nor through the town Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown. Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best, Whose very name should be a memory To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest Beneath the Roman walls, and melody Still mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play The lute of Adonais: with his lips Song passed away.