Hard by asphodel and rose,
Never time when music spoke
But a dryad fled repose.
Weaving, turning, high and low
Where the purpled rhythms fall,
Where the plangent pipings call,
Round and round and round we go.
The Fawn (dancing forward and about them). I can dance! Let me dance! (He grins in the face of one).
The Hama-dryads. Go away! Don’t bother!
The Cat (prowling under the organ). I saw a mouse peeping out of that hole just now. Wait! (He crouches very low, ready to spring).