LXXXIX

WHERE shall I look for thee,
Where find thee now,
O my lost Atthis?

Storm bars the harbour,
And snow keeps the pass

In the blue mountains.

Bitter the wind whistles,
Pale is the sun,
And the days shorten.

Close to the hearthstone,

With long thoughts of thee,
Thy lonely lover

Sits now, remembering
All the spent hours
And thy fair beauty. 

Ah, when the hyacinth
Wakens with spring,
And buds the laurel,

Doubt not, some morning
When all earth revives, 

Hearing Pan’s flute-call

Over the river-beds,
Over the hills,
Sounding the summons,

I shall look up and behold

In the door,
Smiling, expectant,

Loving as ever
And glad as of old,
My own lost Atthis!