Under the morning skies,
Across the meadow see the maiden pass.
She flies, she flies;
O Daphne, be thou fleet
The little rosy feet
Wet with the cold dews glistening on the grass.
Apollo, gleaming, follows on her track
With head thrown forward, and bright curls blown back.
His singing voice rings forth, "Alas! alas!
Stay, sweet! stay, sweet!
I am no hawk, fair dove;
I love, I love!"
The amorous words go whistling on the wind.
She hears, and with a frightened glance behind,
Forcing her strength, starts onward with a bound;
Her pressed foot spurns a violet from the ground:
He does not touch the earth; the grass is stirred
As by the near approach of some swift bird.
Now but a step his outstretched hand debars.
She seeks the river sparkling in the sun,
Drives up the splashing spray, a shower of stars.
The god springs forward. Ah, she's won!
His kisses fall upon her tangled hair;
For down she bends her head upon his breast,
And cries, "Oh, help me, Father!" in despair.
He feels her stiffen in his hold;
The silky locks on which his cheek doth rest,
To light leaves turning, flutter thin and cold;
The quivering limbs are pliant stems of bay;
His soft lips press rough bark, which shrinks away.
"Still shalt thou be my love," Apollo cries,
"My favored wreath!" and plucks the slender leaves.
A soft wind stirs the branches, and low sighs
The tree, as though the loveless Daphne grieves.