A Venetian Pastoral

Water, for anguish of the solstice,—yea, Over the vessel’s mouth still widening, Listlessly dipt to let the water in With slow, vague gurgle. Blue, and deep away, The heat lies silent at the brink of day. Now the hand trails upon the viol-string That sobs; and the brown faces cease to sing, Mournful with complete pleasure. Her eyes stray In distance; through her lips the pipe doth creep And leaves them pouting; the green shadowed grass Is cool against her naked flesh. Let be: Do not now speak unto her lest she weep, Nor name this ever. Be it as it was: Silence of heat, and solemn poetry.