Faun. Wreathe the pedestal anew;
Hulli-lulli-li-lo!
Scatter violets scattering dew;
Hulli-li-lo!
Honey that the brown bees brew
Pour, and rosy blossoms strew;
Spill such wine
As in dim-bloomed clusters grew
On your father's father's vine.
Dance you now.
I my pipe cease—thus—to blow:
Dance you on.
Dance about the sacred mound,
Dance when every sound is gone....
Now the timbrels softly, sprightly
Beat, and foot it gaily, lightly;
Tiptoe o'er the secret ground,
Dance the round.
Next, to the sole, trilling flute
And your own subduèd laughter
Flutter all in throngs and mazes,
Chase in streams of ardent faces,
With bright eyes and oped mouth mute.
Now alone,
One by one,
Dance and dream, and dreaming float
Till the multitude drifts after,
And I wake a quicker note:
Clap your hands aloft and cry;
Surge in line tumultuously;
Cry, and with a whirl of voices
Fright the pigeons whickering by!
Praise the God of field and fold!
Shout until the hills have told,
By their sudden echoes flying,
Flying, crying, falling, dying,
That upon his name we call,
Who beside the river lying
Hears us keep his festival.
VI
The Faun enters the Valley.
Wearied of solitary hills,
On which the wannish sunlight spills,
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 perchëd pigeon flock,
And as they coo and flutter over
Laughing and carolling of her lover.
Girl. '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.
THE PIGEON SONG.
Little pigeon, grave and fleet,
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.