Classic Poem

We Dryad Sisters exiled be
From our sweet groves in Thessaly;
Green Tempe calls us back again
And Peneus weeps for us in vain.
But here our oracles we breathe,
And here our oaken crowns we wreathe,
Or fleet along the slippery stream,
Or wander through the greenwood dim,
Or to its inmost haunts repair,
To comb our dark-green tresses there,
Or loose them to the whistling wind
And then with flowers and ivy bind.
We've danced and sung on yonder glade
Whilst Pan on his rush-organ played
And Satyr gambol'd and young Faun
Whirled us around the reeling lawn,
Till Echo, whooping under ground,
Bid us to cease our antic round,
Else she would raise the hill with noise
And spread to heaven her traitorous voice.
Then why should we for Tempe mourn,
Although we never can return?
This torrent rolls a wave as sweet
As ever Peneus uttered yet,
This father oak which shelters me
Hath not his peer in Thessaly,
This vale as deep, as wild, as green
As Tempe is, or e'er hath been,
So like in wood and stream and air,
That oft we seem re-exiled there,
And scarce a Dryad here has flown,
But takes this Tempe for her own!