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| A LITTLE gray hill-glade, close-turfed, withdrawn | |
| Beyond resort or heed of trafficking feet, | |
| Ringed round with slim trunks of the mountain ash. | |
| Through the slim trunks and scarlet bunches flash— | |
| Beneath the clear chill glitterings of the dawn— | 5 |
| Far off, the crests, where down the rosy shore | |
| The Pontic surges beat. | |
| The plains lie dim below. The thin airs wash | |
| The circuit of the autumn-colored hills, | |
| And this high glade, whereon | 10 |
| The satyr pipes, who soon shall pipe no more. | |
| He sits against the beech-tree’s mighty bole,— | |
| He leans, and with persuasive breathing fills | |
| The happy shadows of the slant-set lawn. | |
| The goat-feet fold beneath a gnarléd root; | 15 |
| And sweet, and sweet the note that steals and thrills | |
| From slender stops of that shy flute. | |
| Then to the goat-feet comes the wide-eyed fawn | |
| Hearkening; the rabbits fringe the glade, and lay | |
| Their long ears to the sound; | 20 |
| In the pale boughs the partridge gather round, | |
| And quaint hern from the sea-green river reeds; | |
| The wild ram halts upon a rocky horn | |
| O’erhanging; and, unmindful of his prey, | |
| The leopard steals with narrowed lids to lay | 25 |
| His spotted length along the ground. | |
| The thin airs wash, the thin clouds wander by, | |
| And those hushed listeners move not. All the morn | |
| He pipes, soft-swaying, and with half-shut eye, | |
| In rapt content of utterance,—nor heeds | 30 |
| The young God standing in his branchy place, | |
| The languor on his lips, and in his face, | |
| Divinely inaccessible, the scorn. | |
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