of the elder-berry, and with vermilion, dyed.“Wilt ever make an end?” quoth he, “beholdlove recks not aught of it: his heart no morewith tears is sated than with streams the grass,bees with the cytisus, or goats with leaves.”“Yet will ye sing, Arcadians, of my woesupon your mountains,” sadly he replied—“Arcadians, that alone have skill to sing.O then how softly would my ashes rest,if of my love, one day, your flutes should tell!And would that I, of your own fellowship,or dresser of the ripening grape had been,or guardian of the flock! for surely then,let Phyllis, or Amyntas, or who else,bewitch me—what if swart Amyntas be?Dark is the violet, dark the hyacinth—among the willows, 'neath the limber vine,reclining would my love have lain with me,Phyllis plucked garlands, or Amyntas sung.Here are cool springs, soft mead and grove, Lycoris;