and beneath,
     Vineyard, village, groves, rivers, towers, farms,
     The citadel watching the bay,
     The bay with the town in its arms,
     The town shining white as the spray
     Of the sapphire sea-wave on the rock,
     Where the rock stars the girdle of sea,
     White-ringed, as the midday flock,
     Clipped by heat, rings the round of the tree. 
     That hour of the piercing shaft
     Transfixes bough-shadows, confused
     In veins of fire, and she laughed,
     With her quiet mouth amused
     To see the whole flock, adroop,
     Asleep, hug the tree-stem as one,
     Imperceptibly filling the loop
     Of its shade at a slant of sun. 
     The pipes under pent of the crag,
     Where the goatherds in piping recline,
     Have whimsical stops, burst and flag
     Uncorrected as outstretched swine: 
     For the fingers are slack and unsure,
     And the wind issues querulous:- thorns
     And snakes!—­but she listened demure,
     Comparing day’s music with morn’s. 
     Of the gentle spirit that slips
     From the bark of the tree she discoursed,
     And of her of the wells, whose lips
     Are coolness enchanting, rock-sourced. 
     And much of the sacred loon,
     The frolic, the Goatfoot God,
     For stories of indolent noon
     In the pineforest’s odorous nod,
     She questioned, not knowing:  he can
     Be waspish, irascible, rude,
     He is oftener friendly to man,
     And ever to beasts and their brood. 
     For the which did she love him well,
     She said, and his pipes of the reed,
     His twitched lips puffing to tell
     In music his tears and his need,
     Against the sharp catch of his hurt. 
     Not as shepherds of Pan did she speak,
     Nor spake as the schools, to divert,
     But fondly, perceiving him weak
     Before Gods, and to shepherds a fear,
     A holiness, horn and heel. 
     All this she had learnt in her ear
     From Callistes, and taught him to feel. 
     Yea, the solemn divinity flushed
     Through the shaggy brown skin of the beast,
     And the steeps where the cataract rushed,
     And the wilds where the forest is priest,
     Were his temple to clothe him in awe,
     While she spake:  ’twas a wonder:  she read
     The haunts of the beak and the claw
     As plain as the land of bread,
     But Cities and martial States,
     Whither soon the youth veered his theme,
     Were impervious barrier-gates
     To her:  and that ship, a trireme,
     Nearing harbour, scarce wakened her glance,
     Though he dwelt on the message it bore
     Of sceptre and sword and lance
     To the bee-swarms black on the shore,
     Which were audible almost,
     So black they were.  It befel
     That he called up the warrior host