Classic Poem

The stag was gone
And the hounds that follow;
The glade was still,
Not a stir around.
Not a doe or fawn
That had failed to follow
With keenest fear
Could have sensed a sound.
And yet on the hill
There was something hid;
In the coppice near
Was a presence felt,
Of eyes and feet
That were full of thrill,
Of limbs a-quiver
To leap and bound.

Then sudden the leaves
Of a laurel stirred,
The branches parted
And eyes peered out,
With bacchic stealth
Of glance that started,
Then vanished as if
Pan-hoofs were heard.
But not a hoof
From the bushes broke;
Not a wild-hearted
Pipe poured health
And happy lust
Through the deep vine-woof,
Hung from the trees
By the dryad folk.

None: till, again,
The eyes! between
Leafy fillets
Of parted green.
And then, with lips
Of fear unpursed,
Out with a cry
The bacchante burst!
Out with a cry
To the hills about;
Out with a cry
To the bacchant hid!
Out with her cry
For the reel and rout—
The amorous pipe
And the thyrsus-thrid!

And swiftly he came,
On foot as light
As ever the vine-god
Wove in dance!
Swiftly he came
With eyes as bright
As ever the wine-god
Taught to glance!
Swiftly he came
With fawn-skin tossed
Over his shoulder
Ivy-crowned!
Myrtle and thyme
And reed he crossed,
Seized her and whirled her
Glorying round!

O the dance!
Through the heart of Spring!
Bacchus! Bacchus!
God of the grape!—
The reeling trance
And the rapture-fling
Of naked limbs—
The ravishing!
O the dance!
In the deeps of May!
Bacchus, behold
What here is loosed!
What mystery,
What passion-sway,
What deity
By thee induced!

But hist! the call
Of their comrade-band!
They pause, panting,
And parted listen.
The flame of love
In their hearts is fanned
To mad desire,
Their eyes glisten.
But only a kiss
Can they seize,
Then she is gone,
And he, fleetly.
Behind is left
In the limpid glade
A stir of bliss
That has been completely.

Bacchus! Bacchus!
This was your way!
Close to the seasons,
Close to the sod!
Close to the welling
Of all reasons
For our delight, O god.