Xliv

O but my delicate lover, Is she not fair as the moonlight? Is she not supple and strong For hurried passion?

Has not the god of the green world, In his large tolerant wisdom, Filled with the ardours of earth Her twenty summers?

Well did he make her for loving; Well did he mould her for beauty; Gave her the wish that is brave With understanding.

“O Pan, avert from this maiden Sorrow, misfortune, bereavement, Harm, and unhappy regret,” Prays one fond mortal.