CANZONET
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HAVE no storeOf gryphon-guarded gold;Now, as before,Bare is the shepherd’s fold.Rubies nor pearlsHave I to gem thy throat;Yet woodland girlsHave loved the shepherd’s note. Then pluck a reedAnd bid me sing to thee,For I would feedThine ears with melody,Who art more fairThan fairest fleur-de-lys,More sweet and rareThan sweetest ambergris. What dost thou fear?Young Hyacinth is slain,Pan is not here,And will not come again.No horned FaunTreads down the yellow leas,No God at dawnSteals through the olive trees. Hylas is dead,Nor will he e’er divineThose little redRose-petalled lips of thine.On the high hillNo ivory dryads play,Silver and stillSinks the sad autumn day.
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