When the woods are white beneath the moon
And grass is wet with crystal dew,
When in the pool
So clear and cool
The moon reflects itself anew,
We raise ourselves from daylight's swoon,
We shake away
The sleep of day,
Out from our bosky homes we spring;
Horns wreathed with flowers,
Throughout the hours
Of moonlight, worshipping we sing.
Pale iv'ry goddess, whose wan light
Looks down upon us worshipping—
Each dappled faun
Who shuns the dawn,
Is here, and rarest gifts we bring—
The feathers of the birds of night
Wrought to a crown
Of softest down
We offer you, and crystal bright,
The dew within a lily cup
Reflecting stars
In shining bars;
All things most strange we offer up—
Rich gifts of fruit and honeyed flowers
To place within your secret bowers.
We shake down apples from the trees,
And pears, and plums with velvet skin;
Up to the sky
We cast these high
And pray you'll stoop to net them in.
We dance: then fall upon our knees
And pray and sing—all this to show
The love that all loyal fauns must owe
To you, white goddess of the night.
But no more play,
We must away,
The eastern sky is growing bright.
"A SCULPTOR'S CRUELTY"
The faun runs through the forest of the noon,
Then leaps into some lovely shrouded glade
Splashed with hot light. He dances in the shade
Of tower-like trees, whose branches sway and swoon
Beneath their weight of green. No breath of air
Ruffles the vivid blossom or the moss
On which he pirouettes, all is so fair!
He leaps about; then, tired and at a loss
For what to do, he roams the wood—espies
A figure like himself—but stiff and grey!
Lacking the hairy chest and dappled thighs
That are his pride. "But surely this can play
And scamper, dance and snuffle through the day
As well as me?" So he comes near and eyes
The lichened features of a faun of stone.
Oh! it is sad to be so young—alone!
PIERROT OLD
The harvest moon is at its height,
The evening primrose greets its light
With grace and joy: then opens up
The mimic moon within its cup.
Tall trees, as high as Babel tower,
Throw down their shadows to the flower—
Shadows that shiver—seem to see
An ending to infinity.
The Pagan Pan has now unbent
And stoops to sniff the night-stock scent
That brings a memory sad and old,
When he was young, and free, and bold,
To play his pipe in forests black,
Or follow in some goatherd's track
Who, fill'd with panic fear, then flees
Through all the terror-threatening trees.
Huge silver moths, like ghosts of flowers,
Hover about the warm dark bowers,
And wait to breathe the lime-tree scent
That perfum'd many a compliment
Address'd to beauties young and gay,
Their faces powdered by the ray
Of that same moon that looks upon
Their dreary lichen-cover'd tomb.
The dryads throw their water wide
And strive to stem the surging tide
That dashes up the fountain base,
Hoping to catch the moon's pale face—
A game now played without a score
For three good centuries or more.
And all the earth smells warm and sweet
—A fitting place for fairy feet.
But now a figure white and frail
Leaps out into the moonlight pale.
From wakeful thoughts, old age and grief,
He finds in this strange world relief.
Yet all the shadow, scent and sound,
Poor Pierrot's mind do sad confound.
Watch how he dances to the moon
While singing some faint fragrant tune!