VI

Wearied of solitary hills, The Faun enters

On which the wannish sunlight spills, the Valley.

And which the glooms of high clouds cross,

Clouds wandering ever at a loss

About th’ immeasurable sky,

I will descend. And by-and-by

Glimpse beneath the shouldered down

A hamlet reeking golden-brown;

Creep through a willow copse to view

Under an orchard avenue,

A lithe girl in a sun-splashed smock

Calling her perched pigeon flock,

And as they coo and flutter over

Laughing and carolling of her lover.

‘ Little pigeon, grave and fleet’ —

All the golden grain you'd eat,

Greedy! let the little bird

Pick some. Sweet, your cooing's heard;

You shall have this. There! Be bolder:

Light you now upon my shoulder....

Cooroo? Cooroo in my ear?

Darling, yes, I hear, I hear:

From this hand, then, you shall pluck it.

Foolish love! your wings have struck it,

Spilt the grain the grass among.

— Flutter! Flutter!— where's my song?

‘ Little pigeon, grave and fleet’ —

Too late now your wings you beat

By my face: look in the ground;

There, they say, all gold is found.

Little pigeon, grave and fleet, THE PIGEON SONG.

Eye-of-fire, sweet Snowy-wings,

Think you that you can discover

On what great green down my lover

Lies by his sunny sheep and sings?

If you can, O go and greet

Him from me; say: She is waiting....

Not for him, O no! but, sweet,

Say June's nigh and doves, remating,

Fill the dancing noontide heat

With melodious debating.

Say the swift swoops from the beam;

Soon the cuckoo must cease calling;

Kingcups flare beside the stream,

That not glides now but runs brawling;

That wet roses are asteam

In the sun and will be falling.

Say the chestnut sheds his bloom;

Honey from straw hivings oozes;

There's a nightjar in the coombe;

Venus nightly burns, and chooses

Most to blaze above my room;

That the laggard‘ tis that loses.

Say the nights are warm and free,

And the great stars swarm above him;

But soon starless night must be.

Yet if all these do not move him,

Tell, O tell — but not too plainly!—

That I long for him and love him.

Little pigeon, grave and fleet,

Fly you swiftly, tell him this;

And I'll give you grain so golden

Midas’ self has ne'er beholden

Aught so gold, and — yes!— a kiss.

Smiling at her eager voice,

I will grant the girl her choice,

Whispering to the pigeon: “Lo!

Yon's the way for you to go:

Over the willows, past the copse,

To where a sylph-like lime-tree tops

A lonely knoll; then on and on

Toward where yesternight there shone

A silver comet, scarce descried,

Against the fainting eventide.”