The fauns

One hears in the hills the bubbling brooks

Murmuring through the dark ravines,

One hears in the woods the groan of the bagpipes

With the chirp of merry fifes.

And the fauns racing over hills and through thickets,

Their horns erect above their broad foreheads,

Drink through their blunt, upturned nostrils

Subtle potions and lascivious winds.

And, while beneath the great choir of trees,

They weep, for love of the beautiful life:

The bagpipes of the arcadian shepherd.

Happy and fearful of the impending ambush,

The nymphs flee, faster than wild gazelles,

Their ardent lips like blazing flowers!