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THE breeze of morning stirs the grasses fine;
Light vapour floats along the wooded slope,
And, joining tree to tree with delicate rope,
Long iridescent threads unbroken shine.
Close by a brook wrinkled with morning's breeze,
Xanthis, her sandals doffed, robe fallen, now
Leans with one arm against a soft birch-bough,
And, bending o'er the stream, her image sees.
Over one shoulder billows all her hair,
And, white, she smiles to see how whitely lie
Her imaged arms, her narrow waist, her pair
Of rosy-pointed breasts, each polished thigh.
And, with one hand that delicacy guides,
Her young just-shaded innocence hides.
But a sudden cry makes all the leafage stir,
And Xanthis trembles like a hind at bay,
For she has seen, glassed in the waters gray,
The wicked satyr's horns who loveth her.