Out of the mid-wood's twilight Into the meadow's dawn, Ivory-limbed and brown-eyed Flashes my Faun! He skips through the copses singing, And his shadow dances along, And I know not which I should follow, Shadow or song! O Hunter, snare me his shadow! O Nightingale, catch me his strain! Else moonstruck with music and madness I track him in vain. |