Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/272

 No hornèd Faun

Treads down the yellow leas,

No God at dawn

Steals through the olive trees.

Hylas is dead,

Nor will he e'er divine

Those little red

Rose-petalled lips of thine.

On the high hill

No ivory dryads play,

Silver and still

Sinks the sad autumn day. 258