The Equinox (Volume I, Number II)

214 THE EQUINOX Drip thy mystical dews On the tongues of the tender fauns In the shade of initiate yews Remote from the desert dawns! Satyrs and Fauns, I call. Bring your beauty to man! I am the mate for ye all; I am the passionate Pan. Come, O come to the dance Leaping with wonderful whips, Life on the stroke of a glance, Death in the stroke of the lips! I am hidden beyond, Shed in a secret sinew Smitten through by the fond Folly of wisdom in you ! Come, while the moon (the moon !) Sheds her ambrosial splendour, Reels in the redeless rune Ineffably, utterly, tender! Hark! the appealing cry Of deadly hurt in the hollow :— Hyacinth! Hyacinth! Ay! Smitten to death by Apollo. Swift, O maiden moon, Send thy ray-dews after; Turn the dolorous tune To soft ambiguous laughter!