H ipoet ot tbe iPoor 



Gentle Bombyca, like carven ivory- 

 Are thy two feet, and lulling is thy voice ; 

 But thy ways, no words can tell of them. 



Many descriptive passages in the pas- 

 torals fling out a fine reflection of what is 

 most acceptable to the taste of these poor 

 but carelessly happy rustics — running 

 water, shady slopes, singing cicadas, gam- 

 boling kids and calves, and always the 

 flute and the wax-bound syrinx, with Pan 

 somewhere near, but never in sight, drows- 

 ing in his cave. The god, to our modern 

 minds, seems the one conventional figure ; 

 but, after all, the day and the hour were 

 his ; he was a reality to the shepherds. 



Honey and cheese are the titbits rolled 

 under these untaught tongues. *' As good 

 as licking honey" expresses the highest 

 comparison; but then, what could be 

 better? One feels the nectar from the 

 comb-cells dripping down over one's 

 fingers. Who would not be a poor hind 

 at such a golden moment? And the 

 amoebean fluters — they seem to me the 

 most perfect dream of rustic boys that 

 ever poet's imagination painted. 

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