thou cam’st long since,
    To pluck the hyacinth-blossom on the fell,
    Thou and my mother, piloted by me. 
    I saw thee, see thee still, from that day forth
    For ever; but ’tis naught, ay naught, to thee. 
    I know, sweet maiden, why thou art so coy: 
    Shaggy and huge, a single eyebrow spans
    From ear to ear my forehead, whence one eye
    Gleams, and an o’erbroad nostril tops my lip. 
    Yet I, this monster, feed a thousand sheep
    That yield me sweetest draughts at milking-tide: 
    In summer, autumn, or midwinter, still
    Fails not my cheese; my milkpail aye o’erflows. 
    Then I can pipe as ne’er did Giant yet,
    Singing our loves—­ours, honey, thine and mine—­
    At dead of night:  and hinds I rear eleven
    (Each with her fawn) and bearcubs four, for thee. 
    Oh come to me—­thou shalt not rue the day—­
    And let the mad seas beat against the shore! 
    ’Twere sweet to haunt my cave the livelong night: 
    Laurel, and cypress tall, and ivy dun,
    And vines of sumptuous fruitage, all are there: 
    And a cold spring that pine-clad AEtna flings
    Down from, the white snow’s midst, a draught for gods! 
    Who would not change for this the ocean-waves?

      “But thou mislik’st my hair?  Well, oaken logs
    Are here, and embers yet aglow with fire. 
    Burn (if thou wilt) my heart out, and mine eye,
    Mine only eye wherein is my delight. 
    Oh why was I not born a finny thing,
    To float unto thy side and kiss thy hand,
    Denied thy lips—­and bring thee lilies white
    And crimson-petalled poppies’ dainty bloom! 
    Nay—­summer hath his flowers and autumn his;
    I could not bring all these the selfsame day. 
    Lo, should some mariner hither oar his road,
    Sweet, he shall teach me straightway how to swim,
    That haply I may learn what bliss ye find
    In your sea-homes.  O Galatea, come
    Forth from yon waves, and coming forth forget
    (As I do, sitting here) to get thee home: 
    And feed my flocks and milk them, nothing loth,
    And pour the rennet in to fix my cheese!

      “The blame’s my mother’s; she is false to me;
    Spake thee ne’er yet one sweet word for my sake,
    Though day by day she sees me pine and pine. 
    I’ll feign strange throbbings in my head and feet
    To anguish her—­as I am anguished now.”

      O Cyclops, Cyclops, where are flown thy wits? 
    Go plait rush-baskets, lop the olive-boughs
    To feed thy lambkins—­’twere the shrewder part. 
    Chase not the recreant, milk the willing ewe: 
    The world hath Galateas fairer yet.

      “—­Many a fair damsel bids me sport with her
    The livelong night, and smiles if I give ear. 
    On land at least I still am somebody.”

      Thus did the Giant feed his love on song,
    And gained more ease than may be bought with gold.