Spirits in Bondage: A Cycle of Lyrics

III. 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.