Where death-laden Simois falls,Of the face of dead Itys that stunned her,Of grief grown to music and wonder:Most changeful and old and undyingThe nightingale calls.ANOTHER.And on Ida the shepherds are wakingTheir flocks for the upland. I hearThe skirl of a pipe very distant.ANOTHER.And sleep, it falls slow and insistent.’Tis perilous sweet when the breaking