Proserpine and Midas

The Hours have oped the palace of the dawn And through the Eastern gates of Heaven, Aurora Comes charioted on light, her wind-swift steeds, Winged with roseate clouds, strain up the steep. She loosely holds the reins, her golden hair, Its strings outspread by the sweet morning breeze, Blinds the pale stars. Our rural tasks begin; The young lambs bleat pent up within the fold, The herds low in thei...