The Scarecrow
The plaything of the winds, I stand; a jest
For idle children who draw near to stare
Or, mocking, pluck the sordid rags I wear:
The farmer's faded coat and filthy vest.
Of all my former honours dispossessed
I scarce avail from fruit and corn to scare
The thievish birds, contented if none dare
Pluck out my straw-stuffed limbs to line his nest.
Yet once my altar lacked no offerings:
The first fruits of the fields and vineyards round
Were mine by right; in Spring my brows were bound
With painted flowers; and at my foot the sod
Drank the hot blood of goats; for with such things
Men honoured me, Priapus, as a god.
For idle children who draw near to stare
Or, mocking, pluck the sordid rags I wear:
The farmer's faded coat and filthy vest.
Of all my former honours dispossessed
I scarce avail from fruit and corn to scare
The thievish birds, contented if none dare
Pluck out my straw-stuffed limbs to line his nest.
Yet once my altar lacked no offerings:
The first fruits of the fields and vineyards round
Were mine by right; in Spring my brows were bound
With painted flowers; and at my foot the sod
Drank the hot blood of goats; for with such things
Men honoured me, Priapus, as a god.
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