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...TO MY MYRTLE [MIRTLE] by WILLIAM BLAKE STANZAS FOR MUSIC (1) by GEORGE GORDON BYRON ODE TO FEAR by WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) CHANSON INNOCENTE: 2, FR. TULIPS by EDWARD ESTLIN CUMMINGS MONDAY'S CHILD by MOTHER GOOSE VALENTINES TO MY MOTHER: 1876 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |