Bloom then, O Syrinx, in thy flight malign, A reed once more beside our trysting-lake. Proud of my music, let me often make A song of goddesses and see their rape Profanely done on many a painted shape. So when the grape’s transparent juice I drain, I quell regret for pleasures past and feign A new real grape. For holding towards the sky The empty skin, I blow it tight and lie Dream-drunk till evening, eyeing it. Tell o’er Remembered joys and plump the grape once more. _Between the reeds I saw their bodies gleam_ _Who cool no mortal fever in the stream_ _Crying to the woods the rage of their desire:_ _And their bright hair went down in jewelled fire_ _Where crystal broke and dazzled shudderingly._ _I check my swift pursuit: for see where lie,_ _Bruised, being twins in love, by languor sweet,_ _Two sleeping girls, clasped at my very feet._ _I seize and run with them, nor part the pair,_ _Breaking this covert of frail petals, where_ _Roses drink scent of the sun and our light play_ _’Mid tumbled flowers shall match the death of day._ I love that virginal fury--ah, the wild Thrill when a maiden body shrinks, defiled, Shuddering like arctic light, from lips that sear Its nakedness ... the flesh in secret fear! Contagiously through my linked pair it flies Where innocence in either, struggling, dies, Wet with fond tears or some less piteous dew. _Gay in the conquest of these fears, I grew_ _So rash that I must needs the sheaf divide_ _Of ruffled kisses heaven itself had tied._ _For as I leaned to stifle in the hair_ _Of one my passionate laughter (taking care_ _With a stretched finger, that her innocence_ _Might stain with her companion’s kindling sense_ _To touch the younger little one, who lay_ _Child-like unblushing) my ungrateful prey_ _Slips from me, freed by passion’s sudden death_ _Nor heeds the frenzy of my sobbing breath._ Let it pass! others of their hair shall twist A rope to drag me to those joys I missed. See how the ripe pomegranates bursting red To quench the thirst of the mumbling bees have bled; So too our blood, kindled by some chance fire, Flows for the swarming legions of desire. At evening, when the woodland green turns gold And ashen grey, ’mid the quenched leaves, behold! Red Etna glows, by Venus visited, Walking the lava with her snowy tread Whene’er the flames in thunderous slumber die. I hold the goddess! Ah, sure penalty! But the unthinking soul and body swoon At last beneath the heavy hush of noon. Forgetful let me lie where summer’s drouth Sifts fine the sand and then with gaping mouth Dream planet-struck by the grape’s round wine-red star. Nymphs, I shall see the shade that now you are. MOLE.