By Giorgione. In the Louvre

Water, for anguish of the solstice:—nay, 
But dip the vessel slowly,—nay, but lean 
And hark how at its verge the wave sighs in 
Reluctant. Hush! beyond all depth away 
The heat lies silent at the brink of day:
Now the hand trails upon the viol-string 
That sobs, and the brown faces cease to sing, 
Sad with the whole of pleasure. Whither stray 
Her eyes now, from whose mouth the slim pipes creep 
And leave it pouting, while the shadow’d grass
Is cool against her naked side? Let be:— 
Say nothing now unto her lest she weep, 
Nor name this ever. Be it as it was,— 
Life touching lips with Immortality.