XLIV
O but my delicate lover,
Is she not fair as the moonlight?
Is she not supple and strong
For hurried passion?
Has not the god of the green world,
In his large tolerant wisdom,
Filled with the ardours of earth
Her twenty summers?
Well did he make her for loving;
Well did he mould her for beauty;
Gave her the wish that is brave
With understanding.
“O Pan, avert from this maiden
Sorrow, misfortune, bereavement,
Harm, and unhappy regret,”
Prays one fond mortal.