I grieve to think the little gods have vanished,-
The half-gods with the vine-leaves in their hair;
I sorrow much the goat-foot Pan is banished,
And that the Dryads are not anywhere.

The shrine of Flora has no need of flowers,-
Diana seeks her arrows in the sky;
Apollo's beauty was a thing of hours-
And Artemis, herself, learned how to die.

I think Endymion released from sleeping,
Walks through the star-dust at the heaven's rim,
For he is gone-though still the Moon is keeping
Her tireless and beloved watch for him.

On river banks the purple grapes are growing,
But Bacchus and his merry train have passed.
Where are the little Fauns-I would be knowing?
In all the world who heard and saw them last?

If but the small grey elfs were still astraying,
Where shadows lace the golden forest ways,
What joy to meet them, and be long delaying
The sombre tasks that fill the working days!

I grieve to think the little gods have vanished,-
The half-gods with the vine-leaves in their hair;-
I sorrow much the goat-foot Pan is banished,
And that the Dryads are not anywhere.