To A Faun. - Translations From Horace.
OD. iii. 18. Wooer of young Nymphs who fly thee, Lightly o'er my sunlit lawn Trip, and go, nor injured by thee Be my weanling herds, O Faun: If the kid his doomed head bows, and Brims with wine the loving cup, When the year is full; and thousand Scents from altars hoar go up. Each flock in the rich grass gambols When the month comes which is thine; And the happy village rambles Fieldward with the idle kine: Lambs play on, the wolf their neighbour: Wild woods deck thee with their spoil; And with glee the sons of labour Stamp thrice on their foe, the soil.
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"OD. iii. 18...."
Exploring the themes of classic, Charles Stuart Calverley delivers a powerful performance in "To A Faun. - Translations From Horace."... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...