Pine, Rose and Fleur de Lis

by Susie Frances Harrison




No Dryad on the oak,
       No Nymph within the valley,
No fairy little folk
       To frolic, dance and dally;

No Pan along the shore,

       No Nereid in the water,
No savage shape of boar,
       No fair Demeter’s daughter;

No Satyr in the vine,
       No Faun anear the fountain,

No magic in the mine,
       No myth upon the mountain;

No honey amber clear,
       No gleam of waxen laurel,
No stags beside the mere,

       No high Olympic quarrel;

No breath of lowing herds,
       No pastoral sweet singing,
No dish of snow-white curds,
       No mellow milk-bells ringing;


No Goddesses at all,
       No Gods, or hardly any,
No shapes that might recall,
       The classic miscellany;

Dramatis persona,

       Theocritus, were wanting,
Save that perchance to thee,
       Would prove as surely haunting,

The sumach fringèd cliff,
       The oriole low flying,

The open yellow skiff,
       The languid loon’s far crying,

The resinous keen breeze,
        The water’s lazy lapping,
The silver coated trees,

       The eagle’s idle flapping.  



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