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You come sometimes, when sweet sleep holds me


You break away, when sweet sleep lets me loose;
Gone, like a lamb, at sight of the grey


Sweet, I began to love you



first Came hither with my mother, to pluck leaves Of mountain hyacinth :- I shewed the way ;And then, and afterwards, and to this hour, I could not cease to love you, -you, who care Nothing about my love ;-great Jove, no, nothing !

Fair one, I know why you avoid me thus :
It is because one rugged eyebrow spreads
Across my forehead, solitary and huge,
Shading a single eye :—my nose too presses
Flat tow'rds my lip; and yet, such as I am,
I feed a thousand sheep, and from them drink
Excellent milk; and never want for cheese

In summer, nor in autumn, nor dead winter,
My dairies' are so full. I too know how
To play the pipe, so as no Cyclops can,
Singing, sweet apple mine, of you and me,
Often till midnight; and I keep for you
Eleven fawns with collars round their necks.

Come to me then, for you shall have no less';
And leave the sea to strain on the dull shore.

Much sweeter nights here in my cave with me
You shall enjoy ; for here the laurel grows,
Slim cypresses, brown ivy, and the vine
Sweet-fruited ; and here too is water cold,
A heavenly draught, which from it's pure white


The many-wooded Ætna sends me down.-
Who, with this choice, would live in the salt waves?
And yet, if in your eyes I seem still rougher
Than my own trees, they furnish me with wood,
And fire' is on my hearth, and I could burn

My being rather than be without you,
Or my sole eye, though nothing else is dearer.

Ah me, that I was born a finless body,
And cannot dive to you, and kiss your hand ;
Or if you grudged me that, bring yon white lilies,
Or the young poppy with it's thin red leaves.
And yet not so; for poppies grow in summer,
Lilies in spring; and so I could not, both.
But should a visitor, sweetest, in his ship
Come here to see me, I would learn to swim ;
And then I might find out, what joy there is
In living, as you do, in the dark deeps.

O Galatea, that you would come forth,
And having come, forget, as I do now
Here where I sat me, to go home again!
You should keep flocks with me, and draw the milk,
And press the cheese from the sharp-tasted curd.

It is my mother that's to blame.

She never Tells you one kind endearing thing of me, Though you might see me wasting, day by day. My very head and my two feet, for wretchedness, Throb ;-—and so let them, for I too am wretched. O Cyclops, Cyclops, where are thy poor senses ! Go, make thee pails for milk, and pluck their food For the young lambs ;—'twere wiser for thee far Milk where thou canst. Why hunt for what is fled ? Perhaps thou'lt find another Galatea, Another and a lovelier; for at night Many girls call to me to come and sport, And when I listen to them, they all giggle: So that ev'n I seem something in the world.


'Twas thus the Cyclops quieted his love
With pipe and song; and passed an easier life,
Than if he had had gold to give for one.



You came at last, dear girl, yes, came at last, After three nights and morns; and know you not, That those who love, grow old with a day's waiting?

Dearest; as much as spring's more sweet than winter,
Apples than damsons, or the fleecy ewe
Completer than her lamb, or the clear virgin
Attracts us more than the thrice-married woman,
Or the trim fawn is nimbler than the calf,
Or the sweet potent nightingale outsings

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