Canzonet

I have no store

Of gryphon-guarded gold;

      Now, as before,

Bare is the shepherd's fold.

      Rubies, nor pearls,

Have I to gem thy throat;

      Yet woodland girls

Have loved the shepherd's note.

Then, pluck a reed

And bid me sing to thee,

      For I would feed

Thine ears with melody,

      Who art more fair

Than fairest fleur-de-lys,

      More sweet and rare

Than sweetest ambergris.

What dost thou fear?

Young Hyacinth is slain,

      Pan is not here,

And will not come again.

      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.