I went a-hunting with Queen Dian's maids; --
Our sandals, bright with dew,
Swept through the grass, and down the list'ning glades
Our hounds beside us flew;
On swept the chase, but I stood gazing there
Poor wounded doe beside a thorn-tree fair.
For there, with fallen blossoms on his head,
I spied the sleeping boy.
The chase had left me breath, but now ot fled,
For pain of too great joy;
I panted so, the throng; that crossed my breast
And held my quiver, hurt me where it pressed.
I could not tell if he did smile or frown
For shadow's fickle play
On brow and cheek, and on his lip like down
A loving shadow lay.
And there I set my lips
Ah, joy and woe!
For now no more a hunting may I go,
No more a hunting may I go.