The light passes
from ridge to ridge,
from flower to flower—
the hepaticas, wide-spread
under the light
grow faint—
the petals reach inward,
the blue tips bend
toward the bluer heart
and the flowers are lost.

The cornel-buds are still white,
but shadows dart
from the cornel-roots—
black creeps from root to root,
each leaf
cuts another leaf on the grass,
shadow seeks shadow,
then both leaf
and leaf-shadow are lost.
 

Most holy Satyr,

like a goat,

with horns and hooves

to match thy coat

of russet brown,

I make leaf-circlets

and a crown of honey-flowers

for thy throat;

where the amber petals

drip to ivory,

I cut and slip

each stiffened petal

in the rift

of carven petal;

honey horn

has wed the bright

virgin petal of the white

flower cluster: lip to lip

let them whisper,

let them lilt, quivering.

Most holy Satyr,

like a goat,

hear this our song,

accept our leaves,

love-offering,

return our hymn,

like echo fling

a sweet song,

answering note for note.