Mildred McNeal Sweeney
So hath he fallen, the Endymion of the air,
And so lies down in slumber lapped for aye.
Diana, passing, found his youth too fair,
His soul too fleet and willing to obey.
She swung her golden moon before his eyes --
Dreaming, he rose to follow -- and ran -- and was away.
His foot was winged as the mounting sun.
Earth he disdained -- the dusty ways of men