  “Festo quid potius die Neptuni faciam.” Horace, Odes, iii. 28. Spring grew to perfect summer in one day, And we lay there among the vines, to gaze Where Circe’s isle floats purple, far away Above the golden haze; And on our ears there seemed to rise and fall The burden of an old world song we knew, That sang, “To-day is Neptune’s festival, And we, what shall we do?” Go down brown-armed Campagna maid of mine, And bring again the earthen jar that lies With three years’ dust above the mellow wine; And while the swift day dies. You first shall sing a song of waters blue, Paphos and Cnidos in the summer seas, And one who guides her swan-drawn chariot through The white-shored Cyclades; And I will take the second turn of song, Of floating tresses in the foam and surge Where Nereid maids about the sea-god throng; And night shall have her dirge. |
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