The Faun

Kore, O Kore, where art thou fled,
Now that the spring blows white in the land?
Shake out the honeyed locks o' thine head;
Plunder the lilies that lie to thine hand,
Glistering saffron loved of the bees
Murmuring in them, till shadows grow long
With dew-dropping silence under the trees,
Ere break the voluptuous thrillings of song
From the brown-throated sweet harbourers there
Raptured and grieving under the stars....