On Othrys

The air blows fresh. The sun sinks gorgeously.
The kine fear not ox-fly's nor beetle's pest.
On Othrys' slopes the shadows lengthen;—rest.
Dear guest, sent by the Gods, rest here with me.

While drinking foamy milk thine eye shall see,
From threshold of my rural cot, the crest
Olympian, Tymphrestus' snowy breast,
The soaring mountains, fruitful Thessaly,

Euboea and the Sea; through twilight's red
Callidromus and Œta's sacred head,
Where Hercules his altar raised and pyre;

And there below, Parnassus' glowing height,
Where Pegasus now folds his wings of fire,
To mount at dawning in immortal flight.