_This is something that befell_
_When my pipe was drawing well--_
_Something, rather, that I heard_
_As the fluting of a bird._
Daphne, come and live with me
In a Pagan greenery.
Life will then be naught but play,
One long Pagan holiday.
We will play at hide and seek
In the alders by the creek;
Sport amid the cascade's smother.
Splashing water at each other;--
Every moment pleasure wooing,
Every moment something doing.
If we talk, we'll talk of Love:
All its arguments we'll prove.
Such a mental rest you'll find.
Leave your intellect behind.
Night will come, (for come it will,
'Spite the fluting on the hill,)
And we'll pitch a cozy camp
Where it isn't quite so damp.
While you dry your hair and laze
By the campfire's violet blaze,
I will rob a balsam tree
To construct a house for thee.
What so dear as to be wooed
In a sylvan solitude?
What so sweet as Pagan vows
Whispered in a house of boughs?
Pagan love's without alloy.
Pagan kisses never cloy.
Arms that cling in Pagan fashion
Never tire. A Pagan passion
Is the only kind I know
That outlives a winter's snow.
Daphne, Daphne, let us fly!
You're a Pagan--so am I.
_So the fluting on the hill_
_Passed and died, and all was still._
_So the Pagan Pickings died,_
_And I laid the pipe aside._