Go and get a monk for a lover,
And let me quietly sit
On this warm stone which the lichens cover.
I have had enough of it!
Did the high gods carve your polished flanks
And make liquid your hazel eyes,
That two should stand on a river’s banks
And offer up the scurvy thanks
Of being over wise?
Let me alone. I have heard your tale,
How Love is this and how Love is that.
Is not milk still white in the pail
And wine still red in the vat?
I would have gathered you moschatel,
Wood-spurge, wood-sorel, wood-saxifrage!
When the moon rode forth I’d have taught you to tell
Every star in her equipage!
Because I’d loved you with satyr passion
Were that a reason I should not keep
Tenderness in my goat-foot fashion,
And watch beside your sleep?
The oldest of Centaurs is my brother--
The wild wood-ways are in my blood--
My mother was the great earth-mother--
Yet I can love you as well as another
For all my satyrhood!
Go find your friend. I have pride of my own,
But every noon I’ll sit
On this warm lichen-covered stone,
And perhaps you’ll come back to it!
Perhaps when they _talk_ of Love one day
In their high platonic hall,
You will curse their chatter and flee away
And find your Satyr’s grave and say,
“His love was best of all!”