Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
       Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
     The west wind breathes upon them pure and cold,
       And still wolves dread Diana roving free,
       In secret woodland with her company. 
     ‘Tis thought the peasants’ hovels know her rite
     When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
       And first the moonrise breaks the dusky gray;
     Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright,
       And through the dim wood, Dian thrids her way.

     With water-weeds twined in their locks of gold
       The strange cold forest-fairies dance in glee;
     Sylphs over-timorous and over-bold
       Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be,
       The wild red dwarf, the nixies’ enemy: 
     Then, ’mid their mirth and laughter and affright,
     The sudden goddess enters, tall and white,
       With one long sigh for summers passed away;
     The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright,
       And through the dim wood Dian thrids her way.

     She gleans her sylvan trophies; down the wold
       She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee,
     Mixed with the music of the hunting rolled,
       But her delight is all in archery,
       And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she
     More than the hounds that follow on the flight;
     The tall nymph draws a golden bow of might,
       And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay;
     She tosses loose her locks upon the night,
       And through the dim wood Dian thrids her way.

     ENVOI

     Prince, let us leave the din, the dust, the spite,
     The gloom and glare of towns, the plague, the blight;
       Amid the forest leaves and fountain spray
     There is the mystic home of our delight,
       And through the dim wood Dian thrids her way.

     Translation of Andrew Lang.

     AUX ENFANTS PERDUS

     I know Cythera long is desolate;
       I know the winds have stripped the garden green. 
     Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun’s weight
       A barren reef lies where Love’s flowers have been,
       Nor ever lover on that coast is seen! 
     So be it, for we seek a fabled shore,
     To lull our vague desires with mystic lore,
       To wander where Love’s labyrinths beguile;
     There let us land, there dream for evermore,
       “It may be we shall touch the happy isle.”

     The sea may be our sepulchre.  If Fate,
       If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene
     We watch the bolt of Heaven, and scorn the hate
       Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen. 
       Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen
     That veils the fairy coast we would explore. 
     Come, though the sea be vexed, and breakers roar,
       Come, for the breath of this old world is vile,
     Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar;
       “It may be we shall touch the happy isle.”