At The Oar

I dare not lift a glance to you, yet stay Ye Gracious Ones, still save me, hovering near; If music live upon mine inward ear, I know ye lean bright brow to brow, and say Your secret things; if rippling breezes play Cool on my cheeks, it is those robes ye wear That wave, and shadowy fragrance of your hair Drifted, the fierce noon fervour to allay, Fierce fervour, ceaseless stroke, small speed, and I Find grim contentment in the servile mood; But should I gaze in yon untrammelled sky Once, or behold your dewy eyes, my blood Would madden, and I should fling with one free cry My body headlong in the whelming flood.