THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS.
High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover,
Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian streamlet,
She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr
Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his chestnuts.
Vainly the Mænid and the Bassarid gamboled about her,
The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan—the renowned, the accomplished—