O but my delicate lover, 
Is she not fair as the moonlight? 
Is she not supple and strong
          For hurried passion? 

Has not the god of the green world, 
In his large tolerant wisdom, 
Filled with the ardours of earth 
          Her twenty summers? 

Well did he make her for loving;
Well did he mould her for beauty;
Gave her the wish that is brave 
          With understanding. 

“O Pan, avert from his maiden
Sorrow, misfortune, bereavement, 
Harm, and unhappy regret,”
          Prays one fond mortal.

It was summer when I found you 
In the meadow long ago, 
And the golden vetch was growing
By the shore.

Did we falter when love took us 
With a gust of great desire? 
Does the barely bid the wind wait
In his course?