I saw pale Dian, sitting by the brink Of silver falls, the overflow of fountains From cloudy steeps; and I grew sad to think Endymion's foot was silent on those mountains.
And he but a hush'd name, that Silence keeps In dear remembrance,—lonely, and forlorn,
Singing it to herself until she weeps Tears, that perchance still glisten in the morn:— And as I mused, in dull imaginings,
There came a flash of garments, and I knew The awful Muse by her harmonious wings Charming the air to music as she flew— Anon there rose an echo through the vale Gave back Enydmion in a dreamlike tale.
