The young Endymion sleeps Endymion's sleep; 
 The shepherd-boy whose tale was left half told! 
 The solemn grove uplifts its shield of gold 
 To the red rising moon, and loud and deep 
 The nightingale is singing from the steep; 
 It is midsummer, but the air is cold; 
 Can it be death? Alas, beside the fold 
 A shepherd's pipe lies shattered near his sheep. 
 Lo! in the moonlight gleams a marble white, 
 On which I read: "Here lieth one whose name 
 Was writ in water." And was this the meed 
 Of his sweet singing? Rather let me write: 
 "The smoking flax before it burst to flame 
 Was quenched by death, and broken the bruised reed."