Wearied of solitary hills, The Faun enters On which the wannish sunlight spills, the Valley. And which the glooms of high clouds cross, Clouds wandering ever at a loss
About th’ immeasurable sky, I will descend. And by-and-by Glimpse beneath the shouldered down A hamlet reeking golden-brown;
Creep through a willow copse to view Under an orchard avenue, A lithe girl in a sun-splashed smock Calling her perched pigeon flock,
And as they coo and flutter over Laughing and carolling of her lover. ‘ Little pigeon, grave and fleet’ — All the golden grain you'd eat,
Greedy! let the little bird Pick some. Sweet, your cooing's heard; You shall have this. There! Be bolder: Light you now upon my shoulder....
Cooroo? Cooroo in my ear? Darling, yes, I hear, I hear: From this hand, then, you shall pluck it. Foolish love! your wings have struck it,
Spilt the grain the grass among. — Flutter! Flutter!— where's my song? ‘ Little pigeon, grave and fleet’ — Too late now your wings you beat
By my face: look in the ground; There, they say, all gold is found. Little pigeon, grave and fleet, THE PIGEON SONG. Eye-of-fire, sweet Snowy-wings,
Think you that you can discover On what great green down my lover Lies by his sunny sheep and sings? If you can, O go and greet
Him from me; say: She is waiting.... Not for him, O no! but, sweet, Say June's nigh and doves, remating, Fill the dancing noontide heat
With melodious debating. Say the swift swoops from the beam; Soon the cuckoo must cease calling; Kingcups flare beside the stream,
That not glides now but runs brawling; That wet roses are asteam In the sun and will be falling. Say the chestnut sheds his bloom;
Honey from straw hivings oozes; There's a nightjar in the coombe; Venus nightly burns, and chooses Most to blaze above my room;
That the laggard‘ tis that loses. Say the nights are warm and free, And the great stars swarm above him; But soon starless night must be.
Yet if all these do not move him, Tell, O tell — but not too plainly!— That I long for him and love him. Little pigeon, grave and fleet,
Fly you swiftly, tell him this; And I'll give you grain so golden Midas’ self has ne'er beholden Aught so gold, and — yes!— a kiss.
Smiling at her eager voice, I will grant the girl her choice, Whispering to the pigeon: “Lo! Yon's the way for you to go:
Over the willows, past the copse, To where a sylph-like lime-tree tops A lonely knoll; then on and on Toward where yesternight there shone
A silver comet, scarce descried, Against the fainting eventide.”
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