Lxxxix

Where shall I look for thee, Where find thee now, O my lost Atthis?

Storm bars the harbour, And snow keeps the pass In the blue mountains.

Bitter the wind whistles, Pale is the sun, And the days shorten.

Close to the hearthstone, With long thoughts of thee, Thy lonely lover

Sits now, remembering All the spent hours And thy fair beauty.

Ah, when the hyacinth Wakens with spring, And buds the laurel,

Doubt not, some morning When all earth revives, Hearing Pan’s flute-call

Over the river-beds, Over the hills, Sounding the summons,

I shall look up and behold In the door, Smiling, expectant,

Loving as ever And glad as of old, My own lost Atthis!