 | Poems by Maurice Thompson |  |
69
THE FAWN.
I lay close down beside the river,
My bow well strung, well filled my quiver,
My bow well strung, well filled my quiver,
The god that dwells among the reeds
Sang sweetly from their tangled bredes;
Sang sweetly from their tangled bredes;
The soft-tongued water murmured low,
Swinging the flag-leaves to and fro.
Swinging the flag-leaves to and fro.
Beyond the river, fold on fold,
The hills gleamed through a film of gold;
The hills gleamed through a film of gold;
The feathery osiers waved and shone
Like silver threads in tangles blown.
Like silver threads in tangles blown.
A bird, fire-winged, with ruby throat,
Down the slow, drowsy wind did float,
Down the slow, drowsy wind did float,
And drift and flit and stay along,
A very focal flame of song.
A very focal flame of song.
70
A white sand-isle amid the stream
Lay sleeping by its shoals of bream;
Lay sleeping by its shoals of bream;
In lilied pools, alert and calm,
Great bass through lucent circles swam;
Great bass through lucent circles swam;
And farther, by a rushy brink,
A shadowy fawn stole down to drink,
A shadowy fawn stole down to drink,
Where tall, thin birds unbalanced stood
In sandy shallows of the flood.
In sandy shallows of the flood.
And what did I beside the river,
With bow well-strung and well-filled quiver?
With bow well-strung and well-filled quiver?
I lay quite still with half-closed eyes,
Lapped in a dream of Paradise,
Lapped in a dream of Paradise,
Until I heard a bow-cord ring,
And from the reeds an arrow sing.
And from the reeds an arrow sing.
I knew not of my brother's luck,
If well or ill his shaft had struck;
If well or ill his shaft had struck;
But something in his merry shout
Put my sweet summer dream to rout,
Put my sweet summer dream to rout,
71
And up I sprang, with bow half-drawn,
And keen desire to slay the fawn.
And keen desire to slay the fawn.
But where was it? Gone like my dream.
I only heard the fish-hawk scream,
I only heard the fish-hawk scream,
And the strong stripëd bass leap up
Beside the lily's floating cup;
Beside the lily's floating cup;
I only felt the cool wind go
Across my face with steady flow;
Across my face with steady flow;
I only saw those thin birds stand
Unbalanced on the river sand,
Unbalanced on the river sand,
Low peering at some dappled thing
In the green rushes quivering.
In the green rushes quivering.
| Poems by Maurice Thompson | |