lofty-souled,
     For rapture of a wine of tears;
     As had a star among the spheres
     Caught up our earth to some mid-height
     Of double life to ear and sight,
     She giving voice to thought that shines
     Keen-brilliant of her deepest mines;
     While steely drips the rillet clinked,
     And hoar with crust the cowslip swelled.

     Then was the lyre of earth beheld,
     Then heard by me:  it holds me linked;
     Across the years to dead-ebb shores
     I stand on, my blood-thrill restores. 
     But would I conjure into me
     Those issue notes, I must review
     What serious breath the woodland drew;
     The low throb of expectancy;
     How the white mother-muteness pressed
     On leaf and meadow-herb; how shook,
     Nigh speech of mouth, the sparkle-crest
     Seen spinning on the bracken-crook.

     The teaching of the nude

     I

     A satyr spied a Goddess in her bath,
     Unseen of her attendant nymphs; none knew. 
     Forthwith the creature to his fellows drew,
     And looking backward on the curtained path,
     He strove to tell; he could but heave a breast
     Too full, and point to mouth, with failing leers: 
     Vainly he danced for speech, he giggled tears,
     Made as if torn in two, as if tight pressed,
     As if cast prone; then fetching whimpered tunes
     For words, flung heel and set his hairy flight
     Through forest-hollows, over rocky height. 
     The green leaves buried him three rounds of moons. 
     A senatorial Satyr named what herb
     Had hurried him outrunning reason’s curb.

     II

     ’Tis told how when that hieaway unchecked
     To dell returned, he seemed of tempered mood: 
     Even as the valley of the torrent rude,
     The torrent now a brook, the valley wrecked. 
     In him, to hale him high or hurl aheap,
     Goddess and Goatfoot hourly wrestled sore;
     Hourly the immortal prevailing more: 
     Till one hot noon saw Meliboeus peep
     From thicket-sprays to where his full-blown dame,
     In circle by the lusty friskers gripped,
     Laughed the showered rose-leaves while her limbs were stripped. 
     She beckoned to our Satyr, and he came. 
     Then twirled she mounds of ripeness, wreath of arms. 
     His hoof kicked up the clothing for such charms.

     Breath of the briar

     I

     O briar-scents, on yon wet wing
     Of warm South-west wind brushing by,
     You mind me of the sweetest thing
     That ever mingled frank and shy: 
     When she and I, by love enticed,
     Beneath the orchard-apples met,
     In equal halves a ripe one sliced,
     And smelt the juices ere we ate.

     II