Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE FAUN, by SARA KING WILEY


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE FAUN, by                    
First Line: I saw a faun!
Last Line: And never, never shall come back!
Alternate Author Name(s): Drummond, Sarah King Wiley


I SAW a faun!
An eerie faun, that danced along the woodland path,
All in the feathery freshness of the year,
An hour after dawn.
The sunbeams yet were pale and weak;
One lay, a shimmering silver streak,
Across the mossy path.
He wore a skin of dapple deer
About him flung,
And rosy-stemmed grape vine,
To twist and twine,
By glossy leaves and tiny tendrils clung.
I've heard their ears are pointed fur,
Like the spring chestnut's silky bur;
I could not see what ears he had,
Because of all his bronze-brown hair
About his long neck rippling down
Even to his shoulders bare.
His eyes were green and very bright,
Quick as a bird's apoise for flight;
His skin was softly brown.

Alert and graceful did he stray,
Swaying as lithe young birches sway—
He looked scarce humaner than they.
His lips were full, but wistful sad,
Curved with shy scorn,
And like his eyes they seemed to mourn
Some beauty lost or happiness.
But once a low branch brushed a tress
Of cool wet leaves across his brow.
And then a sudden laugh outrang,
As if a hundred thrushes sang—
O, I can hear it now!
The sad mouth slanted elfishly,
And all the painted teeth, nut-white,
Gleamed merrily,
The wild eyes shutting tight
In wrinkles of delight.
I laughed out rude, and off ran he!

Some say they have no souls at all, these fauns,
But hark!
I'll tell you what I've never told before—
I know 'tis true: (you need not wink and nod!)
He's half a god!
Once in mid-June, and just before the dark,
I watched for him.
The woods were hot and still and full of scent,
Green in the twilight dim;
The sunset pink flushed the white heaven's floor
With fiery flakes besprent.
I heard him down where rill and river meet,
Fluting upon his pipe—
O, sweet, sweet, clear and sweet,
Clearer than quail when grain is ripe,
A flowing note that seemed the very breath
That the soft summer saith
Low to herself when evening rises slow
From dell and hollow to the shining sky.

O, pure and smooth in mystic loveliness,
A singing wanderer that soared to press
Into the holy secret of the woods,
Peace of the woods,
That over all, immeasureable, broods,
Lapsing in subtle change, the melody
Slipped into breaks forlorn,
And sobbed as if he fell to think on death,
To mourn and mourn
That all things fair shall fade away and die;
And every strain
Thrilled out to cry and sigh,
Pain and complain,
So sad, so bitter sad—
Surely a human heart the creature had!
Then brave and beautiful the rippling ran
Like brooks that fall in foam,
Exulting streams whose source no man can scan
That laugh and laugh, and roam
Forever in the woods, forever free,
Whose tiny throats still prophesy the sea.
So marvellous sweet. I wept in joy and fear,
Nor dared to draw anear.
I went next day and wandered through the place:
I found no faun, but one blurred hoof-print's trace,
And one more certain token—
The slender plumy reeds were hacked and broken.

I thought to see him soon
But watched through long, long months before he came,
Until September's floss and flame
Across the hills blew glimmering,
And lily-white the harvest moon
Split silver frost-light in the wood.
Once, as I stood
Dipping up water from the spring,
I saw through lucid drops that fell,
Scarring my red cheeks in the well,
A wavering form with shoulders hunched,
Legs all too long and head down bunched,
That leaped and pranced,
And with its long black shade before it danced.
Hope rose within my heart—a golden dawn!
Panting, I ran to see: it was my faun!
He trod as high as if his agile feet,
Like the deer fleet,
Had hoofs instead of toes,
And as a leaf falls fell his steps so light,
Unechoing as rain;
The shadow wriggling as a black stream flows.
But O, I followed crazy with delight,
Heavily pattering loud.
He sprang aloft, and bowed
Until his hair, bronze even in the pallid light,
Dropped in his eyes like a bright mane,
And then off darted he again!

I cannot love my old playfellows now,
The plodding rustics kind and good—
I have forgotten how.
They smell of musty hay, not the fresh wood;
They bring me ruddy apples or a pear,
Or ribbons from the fair,
That every silly bumpkin gives his lass.
I hate their clumsy feet and round blue eyes
I hate their lumpish fruits and fopperies;
I'd rather have fresh dewberries strung on grass.
I wonder if my faun would think me fair?
I'm plump and short and strong, with silk-smooth hair
Abundant, waveless brown;
My skin is amber as a peach; my lips and cheeks are poppy-red.
I'm not a fragile lily or pale rose,
But like the gypsy tulip whose gold head
With scarlet dash in each full petal glows.
For me these country folk are slow and dull;
O, but my faun was beautiful!

Some day when spring is here in showers,
And wimpling rain blows on light flowers,
And all the new pale green is budding sweet,
I'll find again the print of dancing feet;
His pointed toes will mark the ground,
Though the moist mosses give no sound.
But I shall follow on his track
Into the warm, wet forest, far and far,
Where all the wild things are,
And never, never shall come back!





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