He knew a place on the mountain where he went
A certain kind of morning, clear and warm.
The sky was open there, and not a cloud
Came over; not a buzzard filled the blue.
The cattle never climbed so high, and the dog—
He left her in the shed. All day he walked
Without an eye upon him he could feel;
Or sat among the stones, himself a stone,
Watching an empty heaven till his mind
Passed out of him and poured the silence full.
His legs were his no longer, and a hand,
Resting upon a knee, was miles away.
All afternoon he sat, and when he moved
It was as if a stone settled a little
To firmer and longer sleep. Only the wind,
At evening, made him wake and stumble off
To stand upon a bluff over the farm.
The kitchen chimney then, and supper waiting,
Uttered his name aloud and brought him down.

Two shepherds sat a-piping beneath the olives gray, 
What times three Thracian maidens came singing up the way: 
Two shepherds sat a-courting upon the windy lea, 
But two the tale of shepherds: the shepherd-maids were three. 

Oh, Daphnis sang of Lais, and idle Dion told 
How blue were eyes of Thais, how locked her heart and cold: 
And all the while the olives were sighing soft to see 
That none might bring the grace to sing of white Autonoë. 

There was no grace in any feast that Thais lacked for guest, 
Her coming flushed the pallid East, her going dulled the West. 
Oh, pale when Lais' cheek was nigh each wreathed and rosy shell, 
And birds might put their piping by, sweet Lais sang so well. 

Thais would go silk threads to sew upon a warrior's banner, 
Lais would dwell a queen in hell with ghostly maids to fan her. 
And Daphnis would fare fishing with nets upon the sea, 
And each were fain some grace to gain save white Autonoë. 

They saw the brown sails lifting, they heard the sailors cry, 
And Dion dreamed of drifting past shores where mermaids lie: 
And Daphnis took his idle flute, and blew so tenderly, 
That Thais slept, and Lais wept, and smiled Autonoë. 

Now, out, alas! that summers pass and music lasts not long; 
O'er Dion's bed grow lilies red, and bees make droning song: 
The sea-waves cradle Lais, and only seaweeds see 
If hair and lips of Thais still gold and scarlet be. 

But Daphnis blows upon his flute by Hades' shadowy throne; 
And after him with hasty foot, Autonoë alone, 
A living maid, has followed, who, if she would, could tell 
How fair love makes the tangled brakes and fields forlorn of hell.