The satyr nature riots in my blood.
'Of the earth, earthy!' I in vain exclaim.
The text falls on me with its weight of blame,
Yet moves my stubborn feet no step towards good.
What is this fiend that cannot be withstood
By reason, pity, or consuming shame,
That makes my strongest purpose limping lame,
And melts to nought my manly hardihood?
Surely some mother of my buried race
Was caught by Pan, fast sleeping, in his grove,
And filled the hairy round of his embrace;
That I, their far descendant, blindly move
With the fierce frenzy of that ancient love,
And burn with fire whose source I cannot trace.