English poem
The Satyr
by Humbert Wolfe (1885–1940)
“Hollow” he cries and “hollow, hollow.” Mark how the creeping moon is yellow On the cold stones, enmeshing feet That are not soft, with blood not sweet.
Though in the night one cry his Name The shuddering air shrinks from the aim; And failing eddies will not stir To let him through to Lucifer.
What answers where no echoes fly? None where the moon looks balefully. Unheard, far-off “O hollow, hollow” The satyr crieth to his fellow.