Came forth and woke an echo in my souls
As in the hollow of an amphora.

"Imprudent poet," thus it seemed to say,
"What dost thou here? Leave the forsaken Fauns
In peace beneath their trees! Dost thou not know,
Poet, that ever it is impious deemed,
In desert spots where drowsy shades repose--
Though love itself might prompt thee--to shake down
The moss that hangs from ruined centuries,
And, with the vain noise of throe ill-timed words,
To mar the recollections of the dead?"

Then to the gardens all enwrapped in mist
I hurried, dreaming of the vanished days,
And still behind me--hieroglyph obscure
Of antique alphabet--the lonely Faun
Held to his laughter, through the falling night.

I went my way; but yet--in saddened spirit
Pondering on all that had my vision crossed,
Leaves of old summers, fair ones of old time--
Through all, at distance, would my fancy see,
In the woods, statues; shadows in the past!

WILLIAM YOUNG



A LOVE FOR WINGED THINGS.