XIV

O lovely shepherd Corydon, how far

Thou wanderest from thine Ionian hills;

Now the first star

Rains pallid tears where the lost lands are,

And the red sunset fills

The cleft horizon with a flaming wine.

The grave significance of falling leaves

Soon shall make desolate thy singing heart,

When the cold wind grieves,

And the cold dews rot the standing sheaves,—

Return, O Thou that art

The hope of spring in these lost lands of mine.