Faun
Here down this very way,
Here only yesterday
King Faun went leaping.
He sang, with careless shout
Hurling his name about;
He sang, with oaken stock
His steps from rock to rock
In safety keeping,
“Here Faun is free,
Here Faun is free!”
Today against yon pine,
Forlorn yet still divine,
King Faun leant weeping.
“They drank my holy brook,
My strawberries they took,
My private path they trod.”
Loud wept the desolate God,
Scorn on scorn heaping,
“Faun, what is he?
Faun, what is he?”
poem by Robert Graves
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Yeux Glauques
Gladstone was still respected,
When John Ruskin produced
'King's Treasuries'; Swinburne
And Rossetti still abused.
Foetid Buchanan lifted up his voice
When that faun's head of hers
Became a pastime for
Painters and adulterers.
The Burne-Jones cartons
Have preserved her eyes;
Still, at the Tate, they teach
Cophetua to rhapsodize;
Thin like brook-water,
With a vacant gaze.
The English Rubaiyat was still-born
In those days.
The thin, clear gaze, the same
Still darts out faun-like from the half-ruin'd face,
Questing and passive. . . .
;Ah, poor Jenny's case' . . .
Bewildered that a world
Shows no surprise
At her last maquero's
Adulteries.
poem by Ezra Pound
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Pan at Lane Cove
SCALY with poison, bright with flame,
Great fungi steam beside the gate,
Run tentacles through flagstone cracks,
Or claw beyond, where meditate
Wet poplars on a pitchy lawn.
Some seignior of colonial fame
Has planted here a stone-cut faun
Whose flute juts like a frozen flame.
O lonely faun, what songs are these
For skies where no Immortals hide?
Why finger in this dour abode
Those Pan-pipes girdled at your side?
Your Gods, and Hellas too, have passed,
Forsaken are the Cyclades,
And surely, faun, you are the last
To pipe such ancient songs as these.
Yet, blow your stone-lipped flute and blow
Those red-and-silver pipes of Pan.
Cold stars are bubbling round the moon,
Which, like some golden Indiaman
Disgorged by waterspouts and blown
Through heaven's archipelago,
Drives orange bows by clouds of stone . . .
Blow, blow your flute, you stone boy, blow!
And, Chiron, pipe your centaurs out,
The night has looped a smoky scarf
Round campanili in the town,
And thrown a cloak about Clontarf.
Now earth is ripe for Pan again,
Barbaric ways and Paynim rout,
And revels of old Samian men.
O Chiron, pipe your centaurs out.
This garden by the dark Lane Cove
Shall spark before thy music dies
With silver sandals; all thy gods
Be conjured from Ionian skies.
Those poplars in a fluting-trice
They'll charm into an olive-grove
And dance a while in Paradise
Like men of fire above Lane Cove.
poem by Kenneth Slessor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Faun
Ha! sir, I have seen you sniffing and snoozling
about among my flowers.
And what, pray, do you know about
horticulture, you capriped?
'Come, Auster, come Apeliota,
And see the faun in our garden.
But if you move or speak
This thing will run at you
And scare itself to spasms.'
poem by Ezra Pound
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Stupid Cupid - Ep 4
Cupid got seriously queer
And went hunting for a deer
He was crowned later
As the Faun's creator
Cupid's sick little joke, I fear!
poem by Vincent Kuo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Pan
1.
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
This modern world is grey and old,
And what remains to us of thee?
No more the shepherd lads in glee
Throw apples at thy wattled fold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Nor through the laurels can one see
Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold,
And what remains to us of thee?
And dull and dead our Thames would be,
For here the winds are chill and cold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Then keep the tomb of Helice,
Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,
And what remains to us of thee?
Though many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Ah, what remains to us of thee?
2.
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,
Thy satyrs and their wanton play,
This modern world hath need of thee.
No nymph of Faun indeed have we,
For Faun and nymph are old and grey,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This is the land where liberty
Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,
This modern world hath need of thee!
A land of ancient chivalry
Where gentle Sidney saw the day,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady.
This fierce sea-lion of the sea,
This England lacks some stronger lay,
This modern world hath need of thee!
Then blow some trumpet loud and free,
And give thine oaten pipe away,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This modern world hath need of thee!
poem by Oscar Wilde
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Double Villanelle
I.
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
This modern world is grey and old,
And what remains to us of thee?
No more the shepherd lads in glee
Throw apples at thy wattled fold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Nor through the laurels can one see
Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold
And what remains to us of thee?
And dull and dead our Thames would be,
For here the winds are chill and cold,
O goat-loot God of Arcady!
Then keep the tomb of Helice,
Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,
And what remains to us of thee?
Though many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Ah, what remains to us of thee?
II.
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,
Thy satyrs and their wanton play,
This modern world hath need of thee.
No nymph or Faun indeed have we,
For Faun and nymph are old and grey,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This is the land where liberty
Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,
This modern world hath need of thee!
A land of ancient chivalry
Where gentle Sidney saw the day,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This fierce sea-lion of the sea,
This England lacks some stronger lay,
This modern world hath need of thee!
Then blow some trumpet loud and free,
And give thine oaten pipe away,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This modern world hath need of thee!
poem by Oscar Wilde
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
At Fontainebleau
It was a day of sun and rain,
Uncertain as a child's swift moods;
And I shall never spend again
So blithe a day among the woods.
Was it because the Gods were pleased
That they were awful in our eyes,
Whom we in very deed appeased
With barley-cakes of sacrifice?
The forest knew her and was glad,
And laughed for very joy to know
Her child was with her; then, grown sad,
She wept, because her child must go.
And Alice, like a little Faun,
Went leaping over rocks and ferns,
Coursing the shadow-race from dawn
Until the twilight-flock returns.
And she would spy and she would capture
The shyest flower that lit the grass;
The joy I had to watch her rapture
Was keen as even her rapture was.
The forest knew her and was glad,
And laughed and wept for joy and woe.
This was the welcome that she had
Among the woods of Fontainebleau.
poem by Arthur Symons
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I used to have dozens of handkerchiefs
'I used to have dozens of handkerchiefs
Of finest lawn.
I used to have silk shirts and fine new suits.'
He's like a faun
This darling out-at-elbows Irish boy.
'Those were the days
Before the war
When money could be earned a thousand ways.
But now—last week I had a muslin bag
For handkerchief!
No socks, no shirts'—but wiles and smiles and gleams
Beyond belief.
poem by Lesbia Harford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In The Forest
Out of the mid-wood's twilight
Into the meadow's dawn,
Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,
Flashes my Faun!
He skips through the copses singing,
And his shadow dances along,
And I know not which I should follow,
Shadow or song!
O Hunter, snare me his shadow!
O Nightingale, catch me his strain!
Else moonstruck with music and madness
I track him in vain!
poem by Oscar Wilde
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Spiritus Practicum
Forsooth beloveds;
'Tis I……Pan
Mystic, poet and Faun
Indeed a loose arrow
In flight, though aimless
Rest easy my children
Destination matters not
Until your junket ends
And “Grim One” lay claim
Dance rather than sit
Sing don't complain
Make-Merry then Mary make
Drink Huxley’s soma
Eat from Cornucopia
Above all…laugh, cry and feel
Then...
Ye shall truly know what’s real
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Legend
THERE lived in the desert a holy man
To whom a goat-footed Faun one day
Paid a visit, and thus began
To his surprise: 'I entreat thee to pray
That grace to me and my friends may be given,
That we may be able to mount to Heaven,
For great is our thirst for heav'nly bliss.'
The holy man made answer to this:
'Much danger is lurking in thy petition,
Nor will it be easy to gain admission;
Thou dost not come with an angel's salute;
For I see thou wearest a cloven foot.'
The wild man paused, and then answer'd he:
'What doth my goat's foot matter to thee?
Full many I've known into heaven to pass
Straight and with ease, with the head of an ass!'
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sea Change
I saw a Priest in beetle black
Come to our golden beach,
And I was taken sore aback
Lest he should choose to preach
And chide me for my only wear,
A "Gee" string and a brassière.
And then I saw him shyly doff
And fold his grim soutane,
And one by one his clothes take off,
Until like any man
He stood in bathing trunks, a sight
To thrill a maiden with delight.
For he was framed and fashioned like
Apollo Belvedere;
I felt my heart like cymbal strike
Beneath my brassière.
And then the flounce of foam he broke,
And disappeared with flashing stroke.
We met. 'Twas in the billows roll.
Oh how he sang with joy;
But not a hymn, - a merry troll
With gusto of a boy.
I looked, and lo! the priest was gone,
And in his place a laughing faun. . . .
Today confession I have made.
The Father's face was stern,
And I was glad that in the shade
Mine he could not discern . . .
He gave me grace - but oh the bliss,
The salty passion of his kiss!
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Fairy Tale
Rockets drizzle in the yellow sunshine;
What a mask-like throng in the old park.
Landscapes are mirrored in the gray sky
And sometimes one hears the faun scream dreadfully.
Its golden grin appears garishly in the grove.
In cresses the bumblebees' thick of battle clamors,
A rider trots past on a sallow white horse.
The poplars glow in vague rows.
The little girl who drowned in the pond today
Rests as a saint in the bleak room
And a glimmer of clouds often blinds her.
The old people go into the hothouse dully and ill
And water their flowers which wither.
At the gate voices whisper dream-confused.
poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Interlocked
Between the tremors
falls the face
in a glass of water.
Sometimes false teeth reverberate
through the pages of history; devastation
sinks in. A faun rubs the landscape.
Hatchlings come out when death-music
stops. A miracle tends to quieten the bones.
You should not hate me,
it was the method of ruines, the spirits
hover like vampires. Tell me have you
seen the street walking?
A table sings in a kitchen, the knives
peel off the stars, a moon dips in milk
of morality. The house was in disorder,
but the bougainvilleas were shedding
ceaselessly the colourful leaves.
Summer was coming.
poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Canzonet
I have no store
Of gryphon-guarded gold;
Now, as before,
Bare is the shepherd's fold.
Rubies nor pearls
Have I to gem thy throat;
Yet woodland girls
Have loved the shepherd's note.
Then pluck a reed
And bid me sing to thee,
For I would feed
Thine ears with melody,
Who art more fair
Than fairest fleur-de-lys,
More sweet and rare
Than sweetest ambergris.
What dost thou fear?
Young Hyacinth is slain,
Pan is not here,
And will not come again.
No horned Faun
Treads down the yellow leas,
No God at dawn
Steals through the olive trees.
Hylas is dead,
Nor will he e'er divine
Those little red
Rose-petalled lips of thine.
On the high hill
No ivory dryads play,
Silver and still
Sinks the sad autumn day.
poem by Oscar Wilde
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Faun's Head
Among the foliage, green casket flecked with gold;
in the uncertain foliage that blossoms
with gorgeous flowers where sleeps the kiss,
vivid, and bursting through the sumptuous tapestry,
a startled faun shows his two eyes
and bites the crimson flowers with his white teeth.
Stained and ensanguined like mellow wine,
his mouth bursts out in laughter beneath the branches.
And when he has fled - like a squirrel -
his laughter still vibrates on every leaf,
and you can see, startled by a bullfinch,
the Golden Kiss of the Wood,
gathering itself together again.
poem by Arthur Rimbaud
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mr. Bushman
Mr. Bushman,
The king of jungle venture,
With wings of hope and dangling gesture
Slain'er of dreams
The archer of faith
The stalker of rears.
Tip-toe to mimic like wounded antelope,
With sight to kill.
Boom! Boom!
Sky high booms the hunter's Barret,
Wrath'ing against vistas,
Tearing down traveling wind with hooking claws
Amok, the jungle venture-rs run,
Flee, the travelers sky abscond,
And the jungle fever,
Now a curse upon the laps of rage.
Furious with thirst of spade,
Like a gladiator's wrath,
Supple, famished fingers fiddling the bow,
Against lice at flight,
Who challenges you then?
When weapon all at your weaponry camped.
But when near is war,
A tale to tell becomes the weapons rebel,
And then a question drops on the ember,
Is your weaponry no match to the magics of the faun?
Or the commander is no man of war?
For what course are they then?
When at war they seem no more.
poem by Folayemi Akande
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Night-Piece
Ye hooded witches, baleful shapes that moan,
Quench your fantastic lanterns and be still;
For now the moon through heaven sails alone,
Shedding her peaceful rays from hill to hill.
The faun from out his dim and secret place
Draws nigh the darkling pool and from his dream
Half-wakens, seeing there his sylvan face
Reflected, and the wistful eyes that gleam.
To his cold lips he sets the pipe to blow
Some drowsy note that charms the listening air:
The dryads from their trees come down and creep
Near to his side; monotonous and low,
He plays and plays till at the woodside there
Stirs to the voice of everlasting sleep.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Heritage
Now the dead past seems vividly alive,
And in this shining moment I can trace,
Down through the vista of the vanished years,
Your faun-like form, your fond elusive face.
And suddenly some secret spring's released,
And unawares a riddle is revealed,
And I can read like large, black-lettered print,
What seemed before a thing forever sealed.
I know the magic word, the graceful thought,
The song that fills me in my lucid hours,
The spirit's wine that thrills my body through,
And makes me music-drunk, are yours, all yours.
I cannot praise, for you have passed from praise,
I have no tinted thoughts to paint you true;
But I can feel and I can write the word;
The best of me is but the least of you.
poem by Claude McKay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!