Oh soft, soft, soft, thou slender-footed maid,
Cool-clad and fair, along the sultry street
At broad blue blinding noon! Light fall thy feet
As e’er the wood-nymphs’ fell while Pan was laid
At mid-day in some choice Arcadian shade
Where not an oak-leaf laughed, and if there beat
Loud the wild heart of any Dryad fleet,
Hearing, she girded her warm side afraid!
For where, against yon hourly-growing wall,
Dull-red, the ailantus-blossoms brighter show,
A little while his weariness forgot,
Outstretching in a chosen shadow small,
With hot wet forehead on his lax arm low,
Swart Labor sleeps, without whom thou wert not!