The sun that hurt his lovers from on high
Is fallen; she more merciful is nigh,
The blessÈd one whose beauty's even glow
Gave never wound to any shepherd's eye.
Above our lonely boat in shallows drifting,
Alone her plaintive form ascends the sky.
Oh, sing! the water-golds are deepening now,
Almost a hush is on the aspen bough;
Her light caresseth thine, as saint to saint
Sweet interchanged adorings may allow:
Sing, EunoË, that lily throat uplifting:
They are so like, the holy Moon and thou!