The Satyr

When the flowery hands of spring Forth their woodland riches fling, Through the meadows, through the valleys Goes the satyr carolling. From the mountain and the moor, Forest green and ocean shore All the faerie kin he rallies Making music evermore. See! the shaggy pelt doth grow On his twisted shanks below, And his dreadful feet are cloven Though his brow be white as snow- Though his brow be clear and white And beneath it fancies bright, Wisdom and high thoughts are woven And the musics of delight, Though his temples too be fair Yet two horns are growing there Bursting forth to part asunder All the riches of his hair. Faerie maidens he may meet Fly the horns and cloven feet, But, his sad brown eyes with wonder Seeing-stay from their retreat.