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 pausing boat in shallows drifted,
Alone her plaintive form ascends the sky.
O sing! the water-golds are deepening now,
A hush is come upon the beechen bough;
She shines the while on thee, as saint to saint
Sweet interchanged adorings may allow:
Sing, dearest, with that lily throat uplifted;
They are so like, the holy Moon and thou!