Classic Poem

Well have they placed you here, poor frightened maid,
Fleeing the very shadows and the wind,
Strayed—ah, so many centuries ago,
From your blithe sisters in Thessalian woods.
It comforts not—the statue-peopled room,
The solemn visitors with catalogues,
Unfiltered sunlight on you where you stand!
Still are you lost, and now more lost than when,
Scanning dim forest aisles, and untried paths,
With hand to brow and tears and smothered calls,
You fled and knew not where.
Are not we, with our hats, our gloves and shoes,
Dark leather bags, umbrellas and lorgnettes,
More to be feared than satyrs at their play,
Or teasing faun's quaint mockery of despair?