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. 

I, poor romantic, held her heel
Upon the island of my palm,
And saw towards her tiny face
Going her glistening calves that minute.
There was a purpose in her pointed foot;
Her thighs and underclothes were sweet,
And drew my spiral breath
To circumambulate for decency
Their golden and their other colour.
The band was playing on the balcony.
One lady’s hand was lifted,
But she did not cry, ‘I see;
I see the man is mad with love.’
Her fan burst in a million lights
As that her heel was lifted,
Gone from my palm to leave it marked
With quite a kind of heart.
She is on dancing toes again,
Sparkling a twelve-legged body
And many arms to raise
Over her heel and me.
I, poor romantic, contemplate
The insect on this painted tree.
Which is the metal wing
And which the real?