The Faun's Call
Korè, O Korè! where art thou fled,
Now that the spring blows white in the land?
Shake out the honied locks of thy head,
Plunder the lilies that lie to thy hand -
Dew-laden lilies, loved of the bees,
Murmuring in them till shadows grow long,
With quickening silence under the trees;
Ere break the voluptuous thrillings of song,
From the brown-throated, sweet harbourers there,
Raptured, and grieving, under the stars!