Did you, O Daphne, long ago,
Stray with your nibbling sheep
On those far hills I seem to know,
Looming in dreams of sleep?

Did you a little spindle whirl
From morning until night,
Making a thread from fleecy curl
Of their shorn raiment white?

Sometimes, I think me you, Greek girl,
Drawing an endless thread!
A little spindle I, too, whirl—
But it spins song instead!

You wandered, and fine wool you spun,
Happily till the night.
My spinning, too, will not be done
Till fails the lyric light.