Nymphæa

In westward flight the car of heavenly mould
Speeding toward the horizon's verge, in vain
The powerless God pulls back with fourfold rein
His horses plunging in the glowing gold.

It sinks. The sea's hoarse voice in moaning told
Fills the empurpling heavens with sad refrain,
While silently mid evening's tranquil train
The Crescent in her silvery garb is stoled.

'Tis now the time when Nymphs, where springs gush clear,
Throw the slack bow the empty quiver near.
Except a stag's far belling, all is still.

The dance whirls on beneath the moon's warm ray,
Where Pan, with slackening then with hurried play,
Laughs as the reeds at his own breathing thrill.