Hylas

Cease clamorous mourners, let your wailing cease;
     With willing hands I dip’t my porphyry urn
      In this pure well and never may return,
Let Power and Avarice hunt the golden Fleece,
Or rob the Garden of the Hesperides,
     My thirsting soul for nobler wealth shall yearn,
     Wher the calm eyes of Truth like noon star, burn
In her deep well of central life and peace.
Ye cannot feel the warm white arms around me
     Pure as the snow on crested Rhodopé,
Nor the dark looks that in their curls have bound me
     Proud of the bondage that has made me free!
Children of Error whose weird songs would wile us
Wail for your weary selves, but not for happy Hylas.