The Faun

These are the painted days— The days of unreality and dream; Now morning swings her gauzy veil of haze Across the sun's first beam.

Some old faun fills his brush Once more with colors of metallic hue. With bronze he touches every reed and rush, His hills are silver-blue.

He madly gilds the trees With richer gold than any queen may wear; The ferns he makes into a shining frieze To hang upon the air.

Over the grey moth's wing He paints a pattern all in silver dust; His lustre falls on every passing thing, Hiding each shade of rust.

Each lowly shadowed pool He turns into a jewel brown and bright, Where every lily-pad uncurled and cool, Shines green as malachite.

But, oh! I think he grieves, The little faun—so hopeful—yet so old— When the rains come that spoil his painted leaves, And dull his fairy gold.