Another fountain sobs Its song of passions that have passed away. Then with a sound like threatening rolling drums, it throbs And bursts into a flood Of fierce wild music; and its savage spray Becomes the blood Renewed, of crimes long past.
Another fountain sings its song of fear, Of rustics flying fast Before some foe-- A deadly, unknown foe that comes so near They feel his panting breath, And run for many a lengthy, panic mile.
Those graven fountain-masks are white with woe! Carved with a happy smile They strive to weep... End their eternal laughing--for awhile To lose themselves in sleep Or in the silver peacefulness of death.
When the woods are white beneath the moon And grass is wet with crystal dew, When in the pool So clear and cool The moon reflects itself anew, We raise ourselves from daylight's swoon, We shake away The sleep of day, Out from our bosky homes we spring; Horns wreathed with flowers, Throughout the hours Of moonlight, worshipping we sing. Pale iv'ry goddess, whose wan light Looks down upon us worshipping-- Each dappled faun Who shuns the dawn, Is here, and rarest gifts we bring-- The feathers of the birds of night Wrought to a crown Of softest down We offer you, and crystal bright, The dew within a lily cup Reflecting stars In shining bars; All things most strange we offer up-- Rich gifts of fruit and honeyed flowers To place within your secret bowers. We shake down apples from the trees, And pears, and plums with velvet skin; Up to the sky We cast these high And pray you'll stoop to net them in. We dance: then fall upon our knees And pray and sing--all this to show The love that all loyal fauns must owe To you, white goddess of the night. But no more play, We must away, The eastern sky is growing bright.
The faun runs through the forest of the noon, Then leaps into some lovely shrouded glade Splashed with hot light. He dances in the shade Of tower-like trees, whose branches sway and swoon Beneath their weight of green. No breath of air Ruffles the vivid blossom or the moss On which he pirouettes, all is so fair!
He leaps about; then, tired and at a loss For what to do, he roams the wood--espies A figure like himself--but stiff and grey! Lacking the hairy chest and dappled thighs That are his pride. "But surely this can play And scamper, dance and snuffle through the day As well as me?" So he comes near and eyes The lichened features of a faun of stone.