Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
    Thou foster child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
    A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
    Of deities or mortals , or of both,
       In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
    What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape?
       What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy?


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