ℂomes ৳he ↁawn
No wild-foot Dryad haunts this leafless glade, with woodland lures, old weird lures chanted long; No nightingale thrills dusk's embalméd shade. With all her incommunicable song, sorrow divine and sacramental wrong; no panting Nymph, deliciously afraid. Flies from no eager Faun among the trees; No Satyr skilled to tune the cunning dance. Draws magic from his flute: the revel rout, with minstrelsy aflame.












