When the flowery hands of spring <br />Forth their woodland riches fling, <br /> Through the meadows, through the valleys <br />Goes the satyr carolling. <br /> <br />From the mountain and the moor, <br />Forest green and ocean shore <br /> All the faerie kin he rallies <br />Making music evermore. <br /> <br />See! the shaggy pelt doth grow <br />On his twisted shanks below, <br /> And his dreadful feet are cloven <br />Though his brow be white as snow- <br /> <br />Though his brow be clear and white <br />And beneath it fancies bright, <br /> Wisdom and high thoughts are woven <br />And the musics of delight, <br /> <br />Though his temples too be fair <br />Yet two horns are growing there <br /> Bursting forth to part asunder <br />All the riches of his hair. <br /> <br />Faerie maidens he may meet <br />Fly the horns and cloven feet, <br /> But, his sad brown eyes with wonder <br />Seeing-stay from their retreat.<br /><br />Clive Staples Lewis<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-satyr/
