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.

Where now these mingled ruins lie
    A temple once to Bacchus rose,
Beneath whose roof, aspiring high,
    Full many a guest forgot his woes:

No more this dome, by tempests torn,
    Affords a social safe retreat;
But ravens here, with eye forlorn,
    And clustering bats henceforth will meet.

The Priestess of this ruined shrine,
    Unable to survive the stroke,
Presents no more the ruddy wine,
    Her glasses gone, her china broke.

The friendly Host, whose social hand
    Accosted strangers at the door,
Has left at length his wonted stand,
    And greets the weary guest no more.

Old creeping Time, that brings decay,
    Might yet have spared these mouldering walls,
Alike beneath whose potent sway
    A temple or a tavern falls.

Is this the place where mirth and joy,
    Coy nymphs and sprightly lads were found?
Indeed! no more the nymphs are coy,
    No more the flowing bowls go round.

Is this the place where festive song
    Deceived the wintry hours away?
No more the swains the tune prolong,
    No more the maidens join the lay:

Is this the place where Nancy slept
    In downy beds of blue and green?—
Dame Nature here no vigils kept,
    No cold unfeeling guards were seen.
‘
Tis gone!—and Nancy tempts no more,
    Deep, unrelenting silence reigns;
Of all that pleased, that charmed before,
    The tottering chimney scarce remains!

Ye tyrant winds, whose ruffian blast
    Through doors and windows blew too strong,
And all the roof to ruin cast,
    The roof that sheltered us so long.

Your wrath appeased, I pray be kind
    If Mopsus should the dome renew;
That we again may quaff his wine,
    Again collect our jovial crew.

Pan came out of the woods one day,—
His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,
The gray of the moss of walls were they,—
     And stood in the sun and looked his fill
     At wooded valley and wooded hill.

He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,
On a height of naked pasture land;
In all the country he did command
     He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.
     That was well! And he stamped a hoof.

He heart knew peace, for none came here
To this lean feeding save once a year
Someone to salt the half-wild steer,
     Or homespun children with clicking pails
     Who see so little they tell no tales.

He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach
A new-world song, far out of reach,
For a sylvan sign that the blue jay’s screech
     And the whimper of hawks beside the sun
     Were music enough for him, for one.

Times were changed from what they were:
Such pipes kept less of power to stir
The fruited bough of the juniper
     And the fragile bluets clustered there
     Than the merest aimless breath of air.

They were pipes of pagan mirth,
And the world had found new terms of worth.
He laid him down on the sun-burned earth
     And ravelled a flower and looked away—
     Play? Play?—What should he play?

I'll keep a little tavern
   Below the high hill's crest,
Wherein all grey-eyed people
   May set them down and rest.

There shall be plates a-plenty,
   And mugs to melt the chill
Of all the grey-eyed people
   Who happen up the hill.

There sound will sleep the traveller,
   And dream his journey's end,
But I will rouse at midnight
   The falling fire to tend.

Aye, 'tis a curious fancy—
   But all the good I know
Was taught me out of two grey eyes
   A long time ago.

I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year;
And you must welcome from another part
Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.
No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell
Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and well
To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring.
Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,
I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums, 
That you may hail anew the bird and rose
When I come back to you, as summer comes.
Else will you seek, at some not distant time, 
Even your summer in another clime.

Joy is come to the little
          Everywhere;
Pink to the peach and pink to the apple,
          White to the pear.
Stars are come to the dogwood,
          Astral, pale;
Mists are pink on the red-bud,
          Veil after veil.
Flutes for the feathery locusts,
          Soft as spray;
Tongues of the lovers for chestnuts, poplars,
          Babbling May.
Yellow plumes for the willows’
          Wind-blown hair;
Oak trees and sycamores only
          Comfortless bare.
Sore from steel and the watching,
          Somber and old,—
Wooing robes for the beeches, larches,
          Splashed with gold;
Breath o’ love to the lilac,
          Warm with noon.—
Great hearts cold when the little
          Beat mad so soon.
What is their faith to bear it
          Till it come,
Waiting with rain-cloud and swallow,
          Frozen, dumb?

She is neither pink nor pale,
    And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
    And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
    In the sun 'tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
    Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can, 
    And her ways to my ways resign; 
But she was not made for any man, 
    And she never will be all mine.

The Wind is sewing with needles of rain.
With shining needles of rain
It stitches into the thin
Cloth of earth. In,
In, in, in.
Oh, the wind has often sewed with me.
One, two, three.

Spring must have fine things
To wear like other springs.
Of silken green the grass must be
Embroidered. One and two and three.
Then every crocus must be made
So subtly as to seem afraid
Of lifting colour from the ground;
And after crocuses the round
Heads of tulips, and all the fair
Intricate garb that Spring will wear.
The wind must sew with needles of rain,
With shining needles of rain,
Stitching into the thin
Cloth of earth, in,
In, in, in,
For all the springs of futurity.
One, two, three.

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

A blue-bell springs upon the ledge,
A lark sits singing in the hedge;
Sweet perfumes scent the balmy air,
And life is brimming everywhere.
What lark and breeze and bluebird sing,
    Is Spring, Spring, Spring!

No more the air is sharp and cold;
The planter wends across the wold,
And, glad, beneath the shining sky
We wander forth, my love and I.
And ever in our hearts doth ring
    This song of Spring, Spring!

For life is life and love is love,
'Twixt maid and man or dove and dove.
Life may be short, life may be long,
But love will come, and to its song
Shall this refrain for ever cling
    Of Spring, Spring, Spring!