The Dog of Polyphemus

Polyphemus! the sheperdess Galatea
Pelts thy flock with apples,
Calling thee a rude clown,
Insensible to love;
And thou lookest not at her,
Pining in wretchedness,
But sittest playing sweet strains on thy pipe.
See, again she is pelting thy dog,
Which follows to watch thy sheep.
He barks, looking towards the sea;
The beauteous waves soft murmuring
Show him running to and fro along the beach.
Take heed lest he leap not on her,
Coming fresh from the sea-wave,
And tear her fair flesh.
But the soft morning comes and goes
Like the dry thistle-down when summer glows.
She pursues him who flies her,
Flies her pursuer, and moves the landmarks
Of love's boundaries.
For, Polyphemus, what is not lovely
Often seems lovely to the lover.