The mules, I think, will not be here this hour.
They feel the cool wet turf under their feet
    By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes
In which they have toil'd all night from Catania,
    And scarcely will they budge a yard. O Pan
How gracious is the mountain at this hour!
    A thousand times have I been here alone
Or with the revellers from the mountain towns,
    But never on so fair a morn; -- the sun
Is shining on the brilliant mountain crests,
    And on the highest pines: but further down
Here in the valley is in shade; the sward
    Is dark, and on the stream the mist still hangs;
One sees one's foot-prints crush'd in the wet grass,
    One's breath curls in the air; and on these pines
That climb from the stream's edge, the long grey tufts,
    Which the goats love, are jewell'd thick with dew.