Friday, October 4, 2013

a pastoral

ah corydon, poor corydon
why beats thy heart so sore?
phyllis is aflame with love
and walks along the shore

and yet she never looks thy way
not even when the breeze
from distant lands and distant skies
should give her gazing ease

but looks away, away, away
awaiting her true knight
with nary glance for her poor slave
ne'en a shadow in her sight

thou piteous piteous wight
lost neath heaven's blue eye
thy chance of love is slight
what canst thou do but ply

thy pipe through meadows green
thy song through forests dark
thy love unheard unseen
to which only phantoms hark