Spring grew to perfect summer in one day,
And we lay there among the vines, to gaze
Where Circe’ s isle floats purple, far away
Above the golden haze;
And on our ears there seemed to rise and fall
The burden of an old world song we knew,
That sang, “To-day is Neptune’ s festival,
And we, what shall we do?”
Go down brown-armed Campagna maid of mine,
And bring again the earthen jar that lies
With three years’ dust above the mellow wine;
And while the swift day dies.
You first shall sing a song of waters blue,
Paphos and Cnidos in the summer seas,
And one who guides her swan-drawn chariot through
The white-shored Cyclades;
And I will take the second turn of song,
Of floating tresses in the foam and surge
Where Nereid maids about the sea-god throng;
And night shall have her dirge.