WHAT THE SATYR SANG
A wild flood of images fills me,
Dim pictures I cannot define;
An ecstatic wonderment thrills me,
A loveliness dream-like, divine;
A maid in the mist-hazy heather—
A world that can never be mine.
O maid of the mist-hazy heather,
Diaphanous nymph of the night;
O come, let us hasten together
To some hidden vale of delight.
The dark woods are dream-lands of shadow,
The mist is the mantle of white.
Let us roam through the honey-sweet flowers
As the scent-heavy petals unfold,
Let us harvest a bright sheath of hours
While the wet moon is circled with gold.
Let us gambol and frolic and dally
As we did on the hillsides of old.
A hot flood of eagerness fills me,
More wond'rous than dream-working wine,
The far call of memory thrills me;
My hand groping blindly for thine . . .
But the days of the Earth-Love have vanished—
The world that can never be mine.
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