The Pursuit of Daphne.

Daphne is running, running through the grass,             The long stalks whip her ankles as she goes.         I saw the nymph, the god, I saw them pass             And how a mounting flush of tender rose         Invaded the white bosom of the lass             And reached her shoulders, conquering their snows.         He wasted all his breath, imploring still:         They passed behind the shadow of the hill.         The mad course goes across the silent plain,             Their flying footsteps make a path of sound         Through all the sleeping country.    Now with pain             She runs across a stretch of stony ground         That wounds her soft-palmed feet and now again             She hastens through a wood where flowers abound,         Which staunch her cuts with balsam where she treads         And for her healing give their trodden heads.         Her sisters, from their coverts unbetrayed,             Look out in fright and see the two go by,         Each unrelenting, and reflect dismayed             How fear and anguish glisten in her eye.         By them unhelped goes on the fleeting maid             Whose breath is coming short in agony:         Hard at her heels pursues the golden boy,         She flies in fear of him, she flies from joy.         His arrows scattered on the countryside,             His shining bow deserted, he pursues         Through hindering woodlands, over meadows wide             And now no longer as he runs he sues         But breathing deep and set and eager-eyed.             His flashing feet disperse the morning dews,         His hands most roughly put the boughs away,         That cross and cling and join and make delay.         Across small shining brooks and rills they leap             And now she fords the waters of a stream;         Her hot knees plunge into the hollows deep             And cool, where ancient trout in quiet dream;         The silver minnows, wakened from their sleep             In sunny shallows, round her ankles gleam;         She scrambles up the grassy bank and on,         Though courage and quick breath are nearly done.         Now in the dusky spinneys round the field,             The fauns set up a joyous mimicry,         Pursuing of light nymphs, who lightly yield,             Or startle the young dryad from her tree         And shout with joy to see her limbs revealed             And give her grace and bid her swiftly flee:         The hunt is up, pursuer and pursued         Run, double, twist, evade, turn, grasp, elude.         The woodlands are alive with chase and cry,             Escape and triumph.    Still the nymph in vain,         With heaving breast in lovely agony             And wide and shining eyes that show her pain,         Leads on the god and now she knows him nigh             And sees before her the unsheltered plain.         His hot hand touches her white side and she         Thrusts up her hands and turns into a tree.         There is an end of dance and mocking tune,             Of laughter and bright love among the leaves.         The sky is overcast, the afternoon             Is dull and heavy for a god who grieves.         The woods are quiet and the oak-tree soon             The ruffled dryad in her trunk receives.         Cold grow the sunburnt bodies and the white:         The nymphs and fauns will lie alone to-night.