"Are you cold too, poor Pleiads, This frosty night?" "Yes, and so are the Hyads: See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads, "All six in a ring: it keeps us warm: We huddle together like birds in a storm: It's bitter weather to-night, It's bitter weather to-night." "What do you hunt, Orion, This starry night?" "The Ram, the Bull and the Lion, And the Great Bear," says Orion, "With my starry quiver and beautiful belt I am trying to find a good thick pelt To warm my shoulders to-night, To warm my shoulders to-night." "Did you hear that, Great She-bear, This frosty night?" "Yes, he's talking of stripping _me_ bare Of my own big fur," says the She-bear, "I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow: The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow, And the frost so cruel to-night! And the frost so cruel to-night!" "How is your trade, Aquarius, This frosty night?" "Complaints is many and various And my feet are cold," says Aquarius, "There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales, And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails, And the pump has frozen to-night, And the pump has frozen to-night." THE DYING KNIGHT AND THE FAUNS Through the dreams of yesternight My blood brother great in fight I saw lying, slowly dying Where the weary woods were sighing With the rustle of the birches, With the quiver of the larches.... Woodland fauns with hairy haunches Grin in wonder through the branches Woodland fauns that know no fear. Wondering, they wander near Munching mushrooms red as coral, Bunches, too, of rue and sorrel; Wonder at his radiant fairness, At his dinted, shattered harness, With uncouth and bestial sounds, Knowing nought of war or wounds: But the crimson life-blood oozes And make roses of the daisies, Persian carpets of the mosses-- Softly now his spirit passes As the bee forsakes the lily, As the berry leaves the holly; But the fauns still think him living, And with bay leaves they are weaving Crowns to deck him. Well they may! He was worthy of the Bay. WILLAREE On the rough mountain wind That blows so free Rides a little storm-sprite Whose name is Willaree. The fleecy cloudlets are not his, No shepherd is he, For he drives the shaggy thunderclouds Over land and sea. His home is on the mountain-top Where I love to be, Amid grey rocks and brambles And the red rowan-tree. He whistles down the chimney, He whistles to me, And I send greeting back to him Whistling cheerily. The great elms are battling, Waves are on the sea, Loud roars the mountain-wind-- God rest you, Willaree! THE FACE OF THE HEAVENS