Book ExcerptTo left and right along the horizon dim.There comes a buzzing plane: and now, it seemsFlies straight into the moon. Lo! where he steersAcross the pallid globe and surely nearsIn that white land some harbour of dear dreams!False mocking fancy! Once I too could dream, Who now can only see with vulgar eyeThat he's no nearer to the moon than IAnd she's a stone that catches the sun's beam.What call have I to dream of anything?I am a wolf. Back to the world again, And speech of fellow-brutes that once were menOur throats can bark for slaughter: cannot sing.III. The SatyrWhen the flowery hands of springForth their woodland riches fling, Through the meadows, through the valleysGoes the satyr carolling.From the mountain and the moor, Forest green and ocean shoreAll the faerie kin he ralliesMaking music evermore.See! the shaggy pelt doth growOn his twisted shanks below, And his dreadful
