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by Robert Graves, 1918

Here down this very way,
Here only yesterday
  King Faun went leaping.
He sang, with careless shout
Hurling his name about;
He sang, with oaken stock
His steps from rock to rock
  In safety keeping,
    "Here Faun is free,
    Here Faun is free!"

Today against yon pine,
Forlorn yet still divine,
  King Faun leant weeping.
"They drank my holy brook,
My strawberries they took,
My private path they trod."
Loud wept the desolate God,
Scorn on scorn heaping,
  "Faun, what is he?
  Faun, what is he?"

Published in Fairies and Fusiliers

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.