On the tender myrtle-branches,
In the meadow lotus-grassèd,
While the wearied sunlight softly
To the Happy Islands passèd,-
Reddest lips the reddest vintage
Of the bright Aegean quaffing,
There I saw them lie, the evening
Hazes rippled with their laughing.
Round them boys, with hair as golden
As Queen Cytheréa's own is,
Sang to lyres wreathed with ivy
Of the beautiful Adonis-
(Of Adonis the Desired,
He has perished on the mountain,)
While their voices, rising, falling,
As the murmur of a fountain,
Glittered upwards at the mention
Of his beauty unavailing;
Scattered into rainbowed teardrops
To the
ai ai
of the wailing.