THE FAUN

Kore, O Kore, where art thou fled,

Now that the spring blows white in the land?

Shake out the honeyed locks o’ thine head;

Plunder the lilies that lie to thine hand,

Glistering saffron loved of the bees

Murmuring in them, till shadows grow long

With dew-dropping silence under the trees,

Ere break the voluptuous thrillings of song

From the brown-throated sweet harbourers there

Raptured and grieving under the stars....