The Faun

written by


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  When I was but a little boy
  Who hunted in the wood
  To scare or mangle or destroy
  A freakish elemental joy
  That tasted life and found it good

  I hardly heard the awful ban
  That mutters round the free,
  But followed where the waters ran,
  And wondered when the pipe of Pan
  Shook silence with its minstrelsy.

  Where sun-spray glittered on my limbs
  I danced, and laughed, and trilled
  My happy incoherent hymns,
  Sped only by the whirling whims
  With which my eager heart was filled.

  The wind was glad and so was I;
  My soul lay open wide,
  Reflecting all the starry sky;
  The swallows called to me to fly;
  I dreamed of how the fishes glide.

  But while my errant feet were set
  On mosses cool and sweet,
  The great grey phantoms brooding met
  Within the shades, and cast a net
  With dreary charms about my feet.

  They pent me in a barren place,
  A city, so they said,
  Of gallant wonder-working grace
  But haunted, haunted by a race
  Of rigid unperceptive dead.

  With sightless eyes they pored on books,
  And scrawled on many a sheet
  Their regimental strokes and hooks,
  And stalked about with pompous looks,
  Top-hatted, in the civil street.

  I strove to flee, but everywhere
  Met solid-seeming walls;
  And yet I knew the world was fair,
  And, hearkening well, heard, even there,
  A bird and distant waterfalls.

  And love which I had scarcely known
  Leaped upward as I heard;
  I blessed the creek, the mossy stone,
  The fern along the gully strown,
  The little beasts, the piping bird.

  Could walls o’ermaster one who knew
  The world of outer light?
  The very shadow that they threw
  Was tindured with a deeper blue
  Because the quickening sun was bright.

  I laughed aloud, as one who leaps
  Against a curling wave,
  And, as a widening ripple creeps,
  A shudder caught the stony steeps,
  And life shook, laughing, in the grave.

  “O phantoms, who are you to fix
  Eternal towers of pride?”
  I mocked at their fantastic tricks,
  I thrust my fingers through the bricks
  And felt the flowers the other side.

  I pricked my pointed ears to hear
  The love-song of the bird,
  And dear was every note, and dear
  The myriad sounds that echoed near
  The magically chorus’d word.

  I saw the fading phantoms glare;
  Their tones to silence hissed.
  The walls bulged, brightening everywhere,
  And thinned and melted in the air
  To ragged streams of rosy mist.

  Trill, happy bird, for ever trill,
  For I have learned to bless
  The great grey shades whose thwarted will
  Turned earth to heaven; and I am still
  A dweller in the wilderness.

© John Le Gay Brereton