And she pauses for an instant; But his arms have scarcely slid Round her waist in cestian girdles, And his low voluptuous lid
Lifted pleading, and the honey Of his mouth for hers athirst, Ruby glistening, raised for moisture— Like a bud that waits to burst
In the sweet espousing showers— And his tongue has scarce begun With its inarticulate burthen, And the clouds scarce show the sun
As it pierces thro’ a crevice Of the mass that closed it o’er, When again the horror flashes— And she turns to flight once more!
And again o’er radiant Pindus Rolls the shadow dark and cold, And the sound of lamentation Issues from its sable fold!
And again the light winds chide her As she darts from his embrace— And again the far-voiced echoes Speak their tidings of the chase.
Loudly now as swiftly, swiftly, O’er the glimmering sands she speeds; Wildly now as in the furzes From the piercing spikes she bleeds.
Deeply and with direful anguish, As above each crimson drop Passion checks the god Apollo, And love bids him weep and stop.—
He above each drop of crimson Shadowing—like the laurel leaf That above himself will shadow— Sheds a fadeless look of grief.
Then with love’s remorseful discord, With its own desire at war, Sighing turns, while dimly fleeting Daphne flies the chase afar.
But all nature is against her! Pan, with all his sylvan troop, Thro’ the vista’d woodland valleys Blocks her course with cry and whoop!
In the twilights of the thickets Trees bend down their gnarled boughs, Wild green leaves and low curved branches Hold her hair and beat her brows.
Many a brake of brushwood covert, Where cold darkness slumbers mute, Slips a shrub to thwart her passage, Slides a hand to clutch her foot.
Glens and glades of lushest verdure Toil her in their tawny mesh, Wilder-woofed ways and alleys Lock her struggling limbs in leash.
Feathery grasses, flowery mosses, Knot themselves to make her trip; Sprays and stubborn sprigs outstretching Put a bridle on her lip;
Many a winding lane betrays her, Many a sudden bosky shoot, And her knee makes many a stumble O’er some hidden damp old root,
Whose quaint face peers green and dusky ’Mongst the matted growth of plants, While she rises wild and weltering, Speeding on with many pants.