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392 Syrinx Now have I seen at dawn the red stag graze, Now have I half forgot all human ways, And wonder half that once I thought them good, Now have I grown knee-deep into the wood. Green glooms there are among the live oak trees And small, wild, hairy things that lurk in these Where all the wood is still, come forth and play. And when there are two moons, one in the sky And one dropped in the pool, I, tiptoe, spy Young dryads dancing on the moon flecked sod With nimble satyrs; and the Great Wood-god Plucks up my stems and empties out the heart; These notched and fashioned with a cutting stone, And softly laid to lips and softly blown, Speak all the thoughts in which the wood has part. Blow, Wood-god, blow, until the happy reeds Drip sounds as sweet as vagrant scent that leads The moths o’ moonless nights, to honeyed hollow; Blow till its tender trill the wood-folk follow And all the wind-wrung stalks will envy this, So small a weed should know a wood-god’s kiss. Editor’s Notes AU 381; see AU 579, with punctuation as here. ...

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