See! the milk-white doe is wounded. He will follow as it bounds Through the woods. His horn has sounded. Echoing, for his men and hounds. But no answering bugle blew. He has lost his retinue For the shapely deer that bounded Past him when his bow he drew.
Not one hound or huntsman follows. Through the underbrush and moss Goes the slot; and in the hollows Of the hills, that he must cross, He has lost it. He must fare Over rocks where she-wolves lair; Wood-pools where the wild-boar wallows; So he leaves his good steed there.
Through his mind then flashed an olden Legend told him by the monks:-- Of a girl, whose hair is golden, Haunting fountains and the trunks Of the woodland; who, they say, Is a white doe all the day; But when woods are night-enfolden Turns into an evil fay.
Then the story oft his teacher Told him; of a mountain lake Demons dwell in; vague of feature, Human-like, but each a snake, She is queen of.--Did he hear Laughter at his startled ear? Or a bird? And now, what creature Is it, or the wind, stirs near?
Fever of the hunt. This water, Murmuring here, will cool his head. Through the forest, fierce as slaughter, Slants the sunset; ruby red Are the drops that slip between His cupped hands, while on the green,-- Like the couch of some wild daughter Of the forest,--he doth lean.
But the runnel, bubbling, dripping, Seems to bid him to be gone; As with crystal words, and tripping Steps of sparkle luring on. Now a spirit in the rocks Calls him; now a face that mocks, From behind some bowlder slipping, Laughs at him with lilied locks.
So he follows through the flowers, Blue and gold, that blossom there; Thridding twilight-haunted bowers Where each ripple seems the bare Beauty of white limbs that gleam Rosy through the running stream; Or bright-shaken hair, that showers Starlight in the sunset's beam.
Till, far in the forest, sleeping Like a luminous darkness, lay A deep water, wherein, leaping, Fell the Fountain of the Fay, With a singing, sighing sound, As of spirit things around, Musically laughing, weeping In the air and underground.
Not a ripple o'er it merried: Like the round moon 'neath a cloud, In its rocks the lake lay buried: And strange creatures seemed to crowd Its dark depths; vague limbs and eyes To the surface seemed to rise Spawn-like and, as formless, ferried Through the water, shadow-wise.