(Induced by smoking "Pagan Pickings.")
I
This is something that I heard,
As the fluting of a bird,
On a certain drowsy day,
When my pipe was under way.
I was weary of the town,
And the going up and down;
Sick of streets and sick of noise,—
And I pined for Pagan joys.
Daphne, here it is July!
Just the month, my love, to fly
To a sylvan solitude
In the green and ancient wood.
We will trip it as we go
On the neo-Pagan toe,
Sunny days and starry nights,
Savoring the wild delights
Of a turbulent desire
That may set the wood on fire.
We will play at hunt-the-fawn,
In the neo-Dorian dawn.
You will scamper through the brake,
And I'll follow in your wake—
As the young Apollo ran
In the piping days of Pan.
You'll escape me, without doubt,
For I'm just a trifle stout;
But, when I have lagged behind,
Waiting for my second wynde,
From some pretty hiding-place
Will emerge your laughing face;
I shall glimpse your eyes of blue,
Hear your merry "Peek-a-boo!"
What to wear? The Pagan plan
Contemplates a coat of tan;
But I fear we shall require
Just a trifle more attire.
Bushes scratch and brambles sting;
Insect myriads are a-wing;—
Heavens, how mosquitoes swarm
When the woodland air is warm.
(MEM: To take, when we elope,
Tanglewood Mosquito Dope.)
Do you like the picture, dear?
Have you aught of doubt or fear?
Have you any criticism
Of my neo-Paganism?
If not, dearie, let us fly
To that passion-ripening sky,
Where our souls may have their fling,
And our every care take wing.
So the bird song fluted by,
Like a vagrant summer sigh—
Came, and passed, and was no more;
And my pleasant dream was o'er.
For arose the wraith of Doubt;
And I knew my pipe was out.
II
This is something that befell
When my pipe was drawing well—
Something, rather, that I heard
As the fluting of a bird.
Daphne, come and live with me
In a Pagan greenery.
Life will then be naught but play,
One long Pagan holiday.
We will play at hide and seek
In the alders by the creek;
Sport amid the cascade's smother.
Splashing water at each other;—
Every moment pleasure wooing,
Every moment something doing.
If we talk, we'll talk of Love:
All its arguments we'll prove.
Such a mental rest you'll find.
Leave your intellect behind.
Night will come, (for come it will,
'Spite the fluting on the hill,)
And we'll pitch a cozy camp
Where it isn't quite so damp.
While you dry your hair and laze
By the campfire's violet blaze,
I will rob a balsam tree
To construct a house for thee.
What so dear as to be wooed
In a sylvan solitude?
What so sweet as Pagan vows
Whispered in a house of boughs?
Pagan love's without alloy.
Pagan kisses never cloy.
Arms that cling in Pagan fashion
Never tire. A Pagan passion
Is the only kind I know
That outlives a winter's snow.
Daphne, Daphne, let us fly!
You're a Pagan—so am I.
So the fluting on the hill
Passed and died, and all was still.
So the Pagan Pickings died,
And I laid the pipe aside.