WHAT youth, of grace in look and limb,
On pillowing roses wooes thee now,
Beneath the grotto's arching brow,
While liquid odors round thee swim?
For whom dost bind thine auburn hair
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In simple neatness witching fair?
Ah, often, often shall he weep
Thy fickle faith, the gods unkind,
And marvel at the sudden wind
That roughens all the scowling deep,
Where erst he knew a gentle breeze
That lightly kissed the dimpling seas.
He suns him in thy golden face;
Fond fool! to hope that thou wilt be
Forever kind, forever free!
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