Sacred citron-trees of the grove of Annia, sacred spring rippling through the wood, shrine of the quiet sea-beach upon the hill, and you, forest gods and goddesses of the race of Zeus—sadly do I leave you and most joyfully return.
I delight to flee away to god-like idleness in your breast. Either I lie hid beneath the dark tresses of the grove, and in short loose tunic grow cool from the breath of the wavering West-Wind; or beside the murmuring of the rill I sit long and long above its cool mirror, sleepily splashing the alluring water with languid fingers. Sorrow drifts away to the sound of the trembling lute. From the height I watch the mirrored sails of a thousand passing ships. And the Dog-star burns hot over land and sea, and Arctos with his frosts and dreary clouds flies from Hyperion.