XV

And feeds her grief with his remembered lay,

      And will no more reply to winds or fountains,

      Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray,

      Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day;

      Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear

      Than those for whose disdain she pined away

      Into a shadow of all sounds:—a drear

Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear.