"Country dance"
di Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)

That hobnailed goblin,
the bob-tailed Hob,
Said, "It is time I began to rob."
For strawberries bob,
hob-nob with the pearls
Of cream
(like the curls of the dairy girls),
And flushed with the heat and
fruitish ripe
Are the gowns of the maids who
dance to the pipe.
Chase a maid?
She's afraid!
"Go gather a bob-cherry kiss from a tree,
But don't, I prithee, come
bothering me!"
She said -
As she fled.
The snouted satyrs drink clouted
'Neath the chestnut-trees is thick as
a dream;
So I went
And leant,
Where none but the doltish coltish wind
Nuzzled my hand for what could find.
As I neighed
I said,
"Don't touch me, sir,
don't touch me, I say,
You'll tumble my strawberries
into the hay.
Those snow-mounds of silver that
bee, the spring,
Has sucked his sweetness from,
I will bring
With fair-haired plants and with
apples chill
For the great god Pan's high altar
...I'll spill
Not one!"
So, in fun
We rolled on the grass and began to
Chasing that gaudy satyr the Sun;
Over the haycocks, away we ran
Crying, "Here be berries as
sunburnt as Pan!"
But Silenus
Has seen us...
He runs like the rough satyr Sun.
Come away!