The Faun said to his shadow, "How can I dance or play 
When never an Oread beckons me at dawning of the day? 
When never an Oread, rosy-limbed, laughs through the living grass 
Or leans adown the river-bank to make the stream her glass?" 

The Faun said to his shadow, "The days are over-long, 
The very ousel-cock begins to pipe a sadder song—
Oh, short sweet days of summer, would that I slept with you 
In your nest lined warm with faded flowers, old kisses and lost dew! 

Oh, faded flowers of fennel, that will not bloom again 
For any south wind's calling, for any magic rain — 
What gold is left in all the world, what gold for me to win? 
What shadows worth the hiding in, what sorrow worth the sin? 

And you, O dear dead Oreads, I would not have you back, 
For the world's old, and the world's cold, and love is turned to lack. 
Better for me to leave these fields forlorn, these meadows gray, 
And follow your fading footsteps upon the sunless way — 
And find — who knows what a Faun may find beyond the night and day?"

Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire - nil nisi divinum stabile est; caetera fumus — the gondola stopped, the old palace was there, how charming its grey and pink — goats and monkeys, with such hair too! — so the countess passed on until she came through the little park, where Niobe presented her with a cabinet, and so departed.

Burbank crossed a little bridge
Descending at a small hotel;
Princess Volupine arrived,
They were together, and he fell.

Defunctive music under sea
Passed seaward with the passing bell
Slowly: the God Hercules
Had left him, that had loved him well.

The horses, under the axletree
Beat up the dawn from Istria
With even feet. Her shuttered barge
Burned on the water all the day.

But this or such was Bleistein's way:
A saggy bending of the knees
And elbows, with the palms turned out,
Chicago Semite Viennese.

A lustreless protrusive eye
Stares from the protozoic slime
At a perspective of Canaletto.
The smoky candle end of time

Declines. On the Rialto once.
The rats are underneath the piles.
The Jew is underneath the lot.
Money in furs. The boatman smiles,

Princess Volupine extends
A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
To climb the waterstair. Lights, lights,
She entertains Sir Ferdinand

Klein. Who clipped the lion's wings
And flea'd his rump and pared his claws?
Thought Burbank, meditating on
Time's ruins, and the seven laws.