He was a shepherd of the Arcadian mood,
That not Arcadia knew nor Haemony.
Affined to the earnest solitude,
The winds and listening downs he seem'd to be.┬░

He went with listless strides, disorderedly.
And answer'd the dry tinkles of his sheep
With piping unexpected melody.
With absent looks inspired as drinking deep┬░
True nectar filter'd thro' the thymy leaves of sleep.┬░

He rested on the forehead of the down┬░
Shaping his outlines on a field of cloud.
His sheep seem'd to step from it, past the crown
Of the hill grazing:
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