But I wait and listen, 5
Till the trodden gravel
Tells me, all impatience,
It is Phaon's footstep.




XVIII


The courtyard of her house is wide
And cool and still when day departs.
Only the rustle of leaves is there
And running water.

And then her mouth, more delicate 5
Than the frail wood-anemone,
Brushes my cheek, and deeper grow
The purple shadows.




XIX


There is a medlar-tree
Growing in front of my lover's house,
And there all day