Will the earth-poetry of Greece never die?
Sitting in the green wood, lonely, was I,
When I heard a voice sing, centuries away
From the Vale of Tempe, from the gods' sway:
April is a naiad
Slipping from the pool,
May a leafy dryad
Hiding in the cool;
June is a wood-nymph
Teasing them to play:
Till comes, later,
The hot-hearted satyr,
August, their awaiter,
To frighten them away!
Will the earth-poetry of Greece never die?
Still for its youth must the whole world sigh?