  I All desolate she sate her down Upon the marble of the temple's stair. You would have thought her, with her eyes of brown, Flushed cheeks and hazel hair, A dryad dreaming there. II A priest of Bacchus passed, nor stopped To chide her; deeming her—whose chiton hid But half her bosom, and whose girdle dropped— Some grief-drowned Bassarid, The god of wine had chid. III With wreaths of woodland cyclamen For Dian's shrine, a shepherdess drew near, All her young thoughts on vestal beauty, when— She dare not look for fear— Behold the goddess here! IV |
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