Where the haven - for that now deemed but prattled lore
'Neath gnarly branch--the velvet moss of forest floor?
Who has searched their mystic song or
Penned the parchment whereon its score?
A dearth, a dearth of senses
Whence hidden they of forest fable, should         
Anyone be found to tell?
Here is where the Satyr dwells
From men, their prying eyes withstood
Dim vales--and shadowy floods--

Once, among the ancient kin, they were held in reverence
Enchanted folk, and apt to play in woodland, glade or mountain
If chanced upon by sons of men, knees were bowed in deference
Holding court in sacred groves beside a lively fountain.
Fame and honor ever fleet--now they seldom wander
But garbed in that of cowled cloak; shielded by its hood.
Retreat, a sad retreat was sound--
From they who'd gaze in stony doubt
Hence in cloistered dells they brood
And cloudy-looking woods

Beyond the shadowy shrouded moor
--Adam's race they'll greet no more
Mystical folk are sheltered away.
The wayfaring man, how ever so bold
A Sprite or Centaur he'll not behold.
--Esteem on earth is sadly over
Lore and legend all's left their fold--
Yet what of those in fog or mist,
In shrouded realms of darkling cover
--Whose Forms we can't discover

Gone the Satyr in mountain dingle
Who fear the sight of men now hostile
--Weep now for their hidden ways
So seldom seen by light of day--
No Dryads found in wooded realms
Or Fauns to skip in clover
For those who nurse these ancient kind
--And stand to best console them
Bear this swathe and o'er them hover
For the tears that drip all over