WOOER of young Nymphs who fly thee, Lightly o'er my sunlit lawn, Trip, and go, nor injured by thee Be my weanling herds, O Faun: If the kid his doomed head bows, and Brims with wine the loving cup, When the year is full; and thousand Scents from altars hoar go up. Each flock in the rich grass gambols When the month comes which is thine; And the happy village rambles Fieldward with the idle kine: Lambs play on, the wolf their neighbour: Wild woods deck thee with their spoil; And with glee the sons of labour Stamp upon their foe the soil. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RUINES OF ROME by JOACHIM DU BELLAY VISIONS: 4. A ROSE by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) THE INDIAN WEED by RALPH ERSKINE FIRST OR LAST (SONG) by THOMAS HARDY A PSALM OF LIFE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR by ALFRED TENNYSON |