Hark at the shepherdess! Then note her unbelievable distress On finding how her much loved faun is dead. She listened as the shepherds said Her faun was mostly goat. In her lap, she cradled the cut throat And the horned head. She would have cut the shepherds’ throats instead. But now, the shepherds play And sing into the far-too-hot midday. They capture with their shady threnodies The shepherdess upon her knees, Whose tearing hands and wail have ceased Lamenting for the boy and beast. Under dark trees, She cuts the pipes that shape her heart’s own ease.
