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!