Callicles

The mules, I think, will not be here this hour.

They feel the cool wet turf under their feet

By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes

In which they have toil'd all night from Catania,

And scarcely will they budge a yard. O Pan

How gracious is the mountain at this hour!

A thousand times have I been here alone

Or with the revellers from the mountain towns,

But never on so fair a morn; -- the sun

Is shining on the brilliant mountain crests,

And on the highest pines: but further down

Here in the valley is in shade; the sward

Is dark, and on the stream the mist still hangs;

One sees one's foot-prints crush'd in the wet grass,

One's breath curls in the air; and on these pines

That climb from the stream's edge, the long grey tufts,

Which the goats love, are jewell'd thick with dew.