Note 290 — Chapter XII

Her rippling raiment, to the winds a prey, Waves backward with her wavering tresses light; Faster than air or arrow, without stay She through the perfumed wood pursues her flight; Then takes the river-bed, nor heeds delay, Made even yet more beautiful by fright; Threads Aristæus, too, the forest fair, And seems to have his hands within her hair. Three times he thrust his right hand forth to clasp The abundance of her curls that lured him on; Three times the wind alone deceived his grasp, Leaving him scorned, with all his hopes undone; Yet not the toil that made him faint and gasp, Could turn him from his purpose still unwon; Nay, all the while, the more his strength is spent, The more he hurries on the course intent.