The night now moves in our blood:
I thought that, between the trees,
At the edge of the field and the wood
A man with animal knees,
A goat-legs, a satyr, a faun,
Looked out at us, nodded, and spoke
A greeting in some strange tongue.
But his head so quickly withdrawn
And his arm was that branch of an oak,
And the rest of him shadow and smoke,
I suppose, and his words were sung