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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, 5

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; 10

Gave her the wish that is brave

With understanding.

"O Pan, avert from this maiden

Sorrow, misfortune, bereavement,

Harm, and unhappy regret," 15

Prays one fond mortal.